
Class _T^^LOA^ 
Book . A i 



Copyright N". 



3G5 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



4 



LONGMANS' ENGLISH CLASSICS 

EDITED BY 

GEORGE RICE CARPENTER, A.B. 

PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND ENGLISH COMPOSITION IN COLUMBIA 
UNIVERSITY 



WASHINGTON IRYING 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 



Haugmana' ^tgliel; (ElaHaiCH 



WASHINGTON lEVING'S 



SKETCH-BOOK 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

BRANDER MATTHEWS, LL.D 

PROFESSOR OF DRAMATIC LITERATITRE IN COLUMBIA UXIVKRSITY 



AND WITH NOTES BY 

ARMOUR CALDWELL, A.B 

LECTURER IN ENGLISH. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 




NEW YORK 
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO, 

LONDON AND BOMBAY 
1905 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 18 1905 

Copyright Envry 
CLASS (X. XXc. No. 

/S 340 7 

COPY B. 



Copyright, 1905 

BY 
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 



All rights reserved 



Published by permission of Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, 
publishers of the complete and authorized editions of the 
Works of Washington Irving. 



V9 



PREFACE 

The editor wishes to express his gratitude to the author 
of the Introduction, and to the editor of the series, under 
whose general direction the notes have been prepared. 

A. C. 
New York City, November, 1905. 



CONTENTS 



Introduction, ..... 
Suggestions for Teachers, 
Chronological Table, 
Preface to the Revised Edition, 
The Author's Account of Himself 
The Voyage, .... 

RoscoE, ...... 

The Wife, 

Rip Van Winkle, .... 

English Writers on America, . 

Rural Life in England, 

The Broken Heart, 

The Art of Book-making, 

A Royal Poet, .... 

The Country Church, 

The Widow and her Son, . 

A Sunday in London, 

The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 

The Mutability of Literature, 

Rural Funerals, 

The Inn Kitchen, 

The Spectre Bridegroom, 

Westminster Abbey, 

Christmas, ..... 

The Stage Coach, 

Christmas Eve, .... 

Christmas Day, 

The Christmas Dinner, 

London Antiques, 

Little Britain, . . . . 

Stratford-on-Avon, 

Traits of Indian Character, 

Philip of Pokanoket, 

John Bull, 

The Pride of the Village, 
The Angler, .... 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 

L'Envoy, 

Notes, 



INTRODUCTION 



I. THE AUTHOR 



Washington Irving was bom in New York on April 3, 
1783, while the city was still in the possession of the Brit- 
ish troops. Although his father was a Scotchman by 
birth and had been in America only a few years before 
the Revolution began, the family was staunchly patriotic. 
The boy was not christened till after the British had 
evacuated the city, and after the American forces had 
marched i;i; '^Washington's work is ended," the mother 
said, "and the child shall be named for him." A few 
years later, when Washington came to New York to be 
inaugurated as the first President of the United States, 
a Scotch maidservant of the Irvings took the child up to 
him in a shop one day, saying, ''Please, your honor, 
here's a bairn was named for you," and the great man 
gave the boy his blessing. 

In New York Washington Irving grew to manhood, 
going to school, playing along the wharves amid the ship- 
ping of all nations, and making voyages in a sloop up the 
Hudson River. To his lasting regret in later life he did 
not avail himself of the chance of entering Columbia 
College, where his two elder brothers had been graduated. 
He studied law for a while, but without putting his heart 
into the task. When he was only nineteen he wrote a 
series of light and clever essays for the newspaper one of 
his brothers had just then started; these papers were 
signed "Jonathan Oldstyle;" they were praised and 
widely copied in the newspapers of other cities. His 
health was feeble, and when he was twenty-one his 



X INTRODUCTION 

brothers sent him to Europe, trusting that the long voy- 
age and the change of scene would do him good. So ill 
did he seem as he was helped up the side of the ship that 
the Captain said to himself, '^ There's a chap who will go 
overboard before we get across." 

But his brothers were right, and the sea-captain was 
wrong. Irving gained strength during the voyage and 
during his rambles through France, Italy, and England. 
He returned home, after an absence of a year and a half, 
and resumed his law studies. He was even admitted to 
the bar, although he knew little law and had no great 
liking for it. Early in 1807, before he was twenty-four 
years old, he joined one of his brothers and his friend, 
Paulding, in sending forth the first number of Salma- 
gundi, an intermittent publication, containing essays and 
social sketches and much pleasant satire of the ways of 
the hour. Twenty numbers were issued during the year; 
and then Irving's attention was called to other things. 

He fell in love and was engaged to be married; but 
before the wedding day the chosen bride caught cold and, 
after a brief illness, died. Irving bore the sudden blow 
bravely, but he never recovered from it. He was then oc- 
cupied in writing a burlesque history of New York; and 
after the first bitterness of his grief had passed away, he 
went back to his labor on this book of humor. That a 
work abounding in playful fun shouM have been written 
in these hours of sadness may seem strange to some; but 
it is among the paradoxes of literature that the writings 
which have called forth the most laughter are those of 
men themselves serious. Moliere had a melancholy of 
his own; Cervantes was grave rather than gay; and Swift 
was morose beyond the verge of misanthropy. There is 
more than a suggestion of the humor of Cervantes and of 
the humor of Swift in the book that Irving wrote in those 
days of despondency. This book was called ''A History 
of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker;" it was pub- 
lished at the end of 1809; and it met with an instant ap- 
preciation, which has continued down to the present time. 



INTRODUCTION xi 

In spite of the encouragement of this success Irving did 
not promptly undertake another book. For eight or ten 
years he seems to have found it hard to settle himself 
down to anything. He went to Washington for a while; 
and then he edited a magazine in Philadelphia. During 
the war of 1812 he served on the governor's staff. In 1815, 
after peace was declared, he went over to England to see 
his brother. He had meant to be gone only a few months, 
but he remained abroad seventeen years. 

In 1819, being then about thirty-six years old, Irving 
began to publish in parts a miscellany of essays and stories 
and travel-sketches. He called it ''The Sketch-Book of 
Geoffrey Crayon." The first number contained the im- 
mortal tale of '' Rip Van Winkle," and the rest of the seven 
numbers had papers inferior in interest only to this. The 
complete book was published toward the end of 1820 both 
in New York and London; and its success was as wide- 
spread in Great Britain as in the United States. Wash- 
ington Irving was the first author of American birth to 
win acceptance in the mother-country. Perhaps this 
popularity in England is due partly to the fact that, al- 
though he was a most loyal American, he had a strong 
liking for the old home of the race and a willingness to 
describe it in his pleasant pages. No single work has 
been more potent than the ''Sketch-Book" in directing 
to Stratford on Avon and through Westminster Abbey 
the unending procession of transatlantic travellers from 
America. 

Having at last discovered what he could do, Irving was 
no longer indolent, and he followed up the success of the 
"Sketch-Book" with two other books not unlike it in 
style and in subject. The first of these was "Brace- 
bridge Hall," which appeared two years later, in 1822; 
the second was the " Tales of a Traveller," which was pub- 
lished in 1824, after he had been for several months wan- 
dering about the continent of Europe in search of health. 
After these books were printed Irving was again in doubt 
what to undertake next; but soon the project seized him 



xii INTRODUCTION 

of going to Spain to make a translation of certain impor- 
tant documents concerning Columbus. 

Irving's stay in Spain was prolonged from February, 
1826, to September, 1829, and it was the most fruitful 
period of his literary career. He soon gave up translat- 
ing to begin an original work, ''The Life and Voyages of 
Columbus." This was published in 1828; and it was fol- 
lowed the year after by the ''Conquest of Granada." 
When Irving finally left Spain he brought with him the 
materials for his account of the "Companions of Colum- 
bus," published in 1831, and for the volume on the "Al- 
hambra." This last book, which appeared in 1832, has 
been called a "Spanish Sketch-Book," and its success, 
like that of the original "Sketch-Book," was immediate 
and has been enduring. 

Toward the close of his stay in Spain Irving was ap- 
pointed secretary of legation in London. This post he 
filled for some two years, when he resigned. In the spring 
of 1832 he went back to America, arriving in New York in 
May, and receiving at once many tokens of the high es- 
teem in which he was held by his fellow-countrymen. 
He was the acknowledged leader of American literature. 
Publicly and privately he was made welcome. He set- 
tled down at Sunnyside, the home he chose for himself at 
Tarrytown on the banks of the Hudson, near the Sleepy 
Hollow he had celebrated. There he lived quietly for 
ten years, writing a little now and then, editing a book 
or two and collecting material for a biography of Wash- 
ington. 

Then, most unexpectedly, the Secretary of State, Dan- 
iel Webster, proffered him the appointment of Minister to 
Spain. He did not like the idea of leaving his pleasant 
home, but he was induced to accept. He knew that his 
appointment was a compliment to the whole profession 
of letters. Like the other American authors who have 
been sent abroad as ministers to foreign countries he ac- 
quitted himself well at his post; so did Franklin in France, 
Bancroft in England and in Germany, Motley in Austria 



INTRODUCTION xiii 

and in England, Lowell in Spain and in England, and 
Bayard Taylor in Germany. In the fall of 1846 Irving 
returned to America, being then sixty-three years old. 

In this same year he amplified a brief biography of 
Oliver Goldsmith, a charming writer whose spirit was 
closely akin to his own; and he also published an account 
of ''Mahomet and his Successors." In 1855 he gathered 
together various essays and sketches into another volume 
of the ''Sketch-Book" type, which he published under the 
title of "Wolfert's Roost." In 1855 also began to ap- 
pear his "Life of George Washington," the longest and 
most serious of all his works. With characteristic mod- 
esty Irving had grave doubts about this biography, but 
his fellow-historians encouraged him with warm praise, 
and the public showed a hearty appreciation of it. 

The last years of his life seem to have been happy, 
like the last years of most other American authors. He 
was comfortably settled in the home he had chosen, near 
the city of his birth, where he had many friends. He was 
a familiar figure in the streets of New York; and the 
late George William Curtis has left us an admirable 
description of his appearance: 

"Forty years ago, upon a pleasant afternoon, you 
might have seen tripping with an elastic step along Broad- 
way, in New York, a figure which even then would have 
been called quaint. It was a man of about sixty-six or 
sixty-seven years old, of a rather solid frame, wearing a 
Talma, as a short cloak of the time was called, that hung 
from the shoulders, and low shoes, neatly tied, which 
were observable at a time when boots were generally 
worn. The head was slightly declined to one side, the 
face was smoothly shaven, and the eyes twinkled with 
kindly humor and shrewdness. There was a chirping, 
cheery, old-school air in the whole appearance, an un- 
deniable Dutch aspect, which, in the streets of New 
Amsterdam, irresistibly recalled Diedrich Knickerbocker. 
The observer might easily have supposed that he saw 
some later descendant of the ren-owned Wouter Van 
Twiller refined into a nineteenth-century gentleman. 



xiv INTRODUCTION 

The occasional start of interest as the figure was recog- 
nized by some one in the passing throng, the respectful 
bow, and the sudden turn to scan him more closely, in- 
dicated that he was not unknown. Indeed, he was the 
Apierican of his time universally known. This modest 
and kindly man was the creator of Diedrich Knicker- 
bocker and Rip Van Winkle. He was the father of our 
literature, and at that time its patriarch. He was Wash- 
ington Irving." 

He lived to publish the last volume of his ''Washing- 
ton" and to revise a new and complete edition of his 
works. Then, on November 28, 1859, he died, in the 
seventy-seventh year of his age. He was buried near the 
Sunnyside he loved and near the Sleepy Hollow he had 
made famous. His life had spanned a complete period of 
American history, for he had been born just before the 
close of the Revolution, and he died just before the out- 
break of the Civil War. 

II. THE BOOK 

It is as interesting as it is instructive to try to trace the 
pedigrees of books, and to see whence a masterpiece de- 
rived its form and what later works it influenced in its 
turn. The "Sketch-Book" owed much to the chief of 
the English essayists, to Steele and Addison, to the Tatler 
and the Spectator; and perhaps its debt was as great to 
the ''Citizen of the World" of Goldsmith, a man of letters 
with whom Irving had much in common. But it had 
also an originality of its own in so far as it was frankly a 
miscellany, the separate papers in which pretended to no 
other bond than that provided by the fact that they were 
all written by the same author. A "Geoffrey Crayon" 
was thus at liberty to enrich this sketch-book of his with 
a story or with an essay; he was free to describe a scene at 
will or to depict a character. The volume might be long 
or it might be short; it might be grave or it might be gay; 
it might be sad or it might be satiric; it might be what- 



INTRODUCTION xv 

ever the author chose to make it, and the reader could 
not reasonably complain. 

The Spectator of Steele and Addison, as we have it now, 
not in the original numbers, issued twice a week, but 
bound in a series of volumes, bears an obvious likeness 
to our modern magazines. We find in it essays on men 
and on manners, obituary articles, book-reviews, and 
comments on current plays. We discover not only brief 
tales which are the forerunners of our latter-day short 
stories and character sketches; but we remark also the 
series of papers, published at irregular intervals, outlin- 
ing the career and the character of Sir Roger de Cover- 
ley; and we can accept this as an early attempt at our 
more modern serial story continued from month to month. 
This variety is one of the characteristics of the Spectator 
borrowed by Irving in the ''Sketch-Book," which thus 
stands midway between the periodical papers of' the 
eighteenth-century essayists and the more elaborate 
monthly magazines of the twentieth century. 

A framework as flexible as this was exactly suited to a 
writer like Irving, and it is not to be wondered at that he 
modified the form but little in the two works he wrote 
next after the " Sketch-Book." Like the contents of that, 
the contents of ''Bracebridge Hall" and the contents of 
the ''Tales of a Traveller" were papers picked out of his 
portfolio and arbitrarily sent forth as a book. So unde- 
cided was he as to what he should put into one work or the 
other, that the account of " Buckthorne" in the " Tales of 
a Traveller" was originally a part of "Bracebridge Hall." 
In both of the later books we find little that is not con- 
tained in germ, at least, in the first of the three. In 
"Bracebridge Hall" we can see a continuation of the 
sketches of English life and English manners and English 
scenery, of which the papers in the "Sketch-Book" on 
"Christmas" and the "Stage Coach" had given a fore- 
taste. In the "Tales of a Traveller" we find stories 
touched with mystery and tinged with humor, not unlike 
the "Spectre Bridegroom" and the "Legend of Sleepy 



xvi INTRODUCTION 

Hollow" in the original collection. All three books pur- 
port to be written by ''Geoffrey Crayon"; and every one 
of them is what ''Bracebridge Hall" was styled on its 
title-page, ''a medley." 

The ''Sketch-Book" itself was originally issued, not in 
a single volume, but in seven parts, of which the first ap- 
peared in May, 1819, and the seventh in September, 1820. 
The entire collection was sent forth as a book not long 
after the publication of the last of the separate parts. 
Many of the several stories and essays had been re- 
printed in British periodicals; and Irving was encour- 
aged to have the book published in London also, where it 
was issued in two volumes. Its success seems to have 
been instantaneous on both sides of the Atlantic ; and it is 
not too much to say that Irving was the earliest American 
author to achieve popularity in Great Britain, — a pop- 
ularity almost equal to that he attained in the United 
States. Perhaps his welcome in England was due to the 
American flavor of "Rip Van Winkle" and the "Legend 
of Sleepy Hollow," perhaps it was rather the result of the 
cordiality with which he depicted English shrines and 
English customs. To a casual reader even it was obvious 
that Irving remained a good American, although he had 
made himself at home in Great Britain. He Uked the 
British; but he did not flatter them, as the character of 
"John Bull" proves plainly enough, even if the frank 
warning to "English Writers on America" had not been 
printed in the second part to show exactly where he 
stood. 

Some of the papers which Irving drew out of his port- 
folio may have been written in America, but the most of 
them were evidently the result of his sojourn in England 
in the years immediately preceding the publication. His 
aim in sending forth the book is plainly stated in a letter 
to one of his friends in New York: 

"I have attempted no lofty theme, nor sought to look 
wise and learned, which appears to be very much the 
fashion among our American writers, at present. I have 



INTRODUCTION xvii 

preferred addressing myself to the feeling and fancy of 
the reader, more than to his judgment. My writings, 
therefore, may appear light and trifling in our country 
of philosophers and politicians; but if they possess merit 
in the class of literature to which they belong, it is all to 
which I aspire in the work. I seek only to blow a flute 
accompaniment in the national concert, and leave others 
to play the fiddle and French horn." ^ 

To the first number there was prefixed a prospectus, 
which the author did not reprint when he collected his 
sketches into a book, — probably because the success of 
the work was then already assured. But the modesty 
with which Irving presented himself is so characteristic 
that the passage deserves quotation here: — 

''The following writings are published on experiment; 
should they please they may be followed by others. 
The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. 
He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, 
and has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, 
therefore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of 
publication. Should he be encouraged to proceed, much 
time may elapse between the appearance of his numbers; 
and their size will depend on the materials he may have 
on hand. His writings will partake of the fluctuations 
of his own thoughts and feelings — sometimes treating of 
scenes before him, sometimes of others purely imaginary, 
and sometimes wandering back with his recollections to 
his native country. He will not be able to give them 
that tranquil attention necessary to finished composi- 
tion; and as they must be transmitted across the Atlantic 
for publication, he will have to trust to others to correct 
the frequent errors of the press. Should his writings, 
however, with all their imperfections, be well received, 
he cannot conceal that it would be a source of the purest 
gratification; for though he does not aspire to those high 
honors which are the rewards of loftier intellects, yet it 
is the dearest wish of his heart to have a secure and 

1 Life and Letters of Washington Irving, Edition of 1869, vol. i., 
page 415. 



xviii INTRODUCTION 

cherished, though humble corner in the good opinions 
and kind feehngs of his countrymen." ^ 

Irving, as has been pointed out, followed up the 
"Sketch-Book" with ''Bracebridge Hall" and the ''Tales 
of a Traveller," which were fairly to be termed continu- 
ations, since the framework was the same, and the pic- 
tures within were very like. After the publication of the 
third of these, and after certain minor men of letters in 
Great Britain as well as in the United States had begun 
to imitate his method, he wrote to a friend in New York 
that ''other writers have crowded into the same branch 
of literature, and now I begin to find myself elbowed by 
men who have followed my footsteps; but at any rate I 
have the merit of adopting a line for myself instead of 
following others." 

Irving was justified in thinking that his writing had an 
originality of its own. At any rate Sir Walter Scott was 
of the same opinion. Scott had early appreciated Irving's 
writing; he had read "Knickerbocker's History" aloud to 
his family, likening its humor to Swift's and to Sterne's; 
and he had given a cordial welcome to the " Sketch-Book." 
When Scott wrote his essay, "On the Supernatural in 
Fictitious Composition," he praised the ludicrous sketch of 
the "Bold Dragoon" as being the only instance of the fan- 
tastic then to be found in the English language, and he 
evidently held it to be worthy of comparison with the best 
examples in German. 

Perhaps what was most original and most important 
in this book was the group of stories and character 
sketches in which Irving handled American legends, and 
in which he proved that a proper background for romance 
could be found even here in the United States, often 
supposed to be too prosperous and too prosaic for any 
effort of eerie fancy. Later authors have followed Irving 
in treating the fantastic and the ghostly, and some of the 
tales they have told have a higher color and a solider 

1 Life and Letters, vol. i., page 417. 



INTRODUCTION xix 

structure than Irving's; but no one of them has excelled 
him in the use of humor. Irving's stories are full of quiet 
fun, never boisterous, and never violent. At times there 
is a lurking hint of irony; and the omnipresent humor is 
always delicate and never insistent. "Rip Van Winkle" 
and the ''Legend of Sleepy Hollow" in the ''Sketch- 
Book," "Guests from Gibbet's Island" in "Wolfert's 
Roost," and two stories in the "Tales of a Traveller," 
the "Devil and Tom Walker" and "Wolfert Webber," 
are worthy of comparison with the one story of this sort 
that Scott wrote, "Wandering Willie's Tale," intro- 
duced into "Redgauntlet," which was published in the 
same year as the "Tales of a Traveller," and therefore 
after the stories in the " Sketch-Book. " 

Like Scott in Great Britain, Poe and Hawthorne in the 
United States felt the influence of Irving and followed in 
his footsteps. It was the pensive and romantic side of 
Irving's work which appealed to Longfellow, who read the 
"Sketch-Book" as a boy and who modelled his own early 
prose style on Irving's, as any one can see who will study 
"Outre-Mer." It was the playful and realistic side of 
Irving's work which attracted Dickens, who followed the 
American writer in describing and extolling the good old 
English customs at Christmas, as any one can see who 
will compare the Dingley Dell chapters of the "Pickwick 
Papers," with the corresponding pages of the "Sketch- 
Book" and "Bracebridge Hall." No British author, not 
even Dickens, has written more cordially about the 
charms and the pleasures of rural life in England than 
Irving, whom Thackeray called "the first ambassador 
whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old." 

In words which one cannot strive to better, the late 
Charles Dudley Warner has declared the kind of man 
Irving was, and the kind of service he did to his country: 

"His character is perfectly transparent; his predom- 
inant traits were humor and sentiment; his temperament 
was gay with a dash of melancholy; his inner life and his 
mental operations were the reverse of complex, and his 



XX INTRODUCTION 

literary method is simple. He felt his subject, and he 
expressed his conception not so much by direct state- 
ment or description as by almost imperceptible touches 
and shadings here and there, by a diffused tone and color, 
with very little show of analysis. Perhaps it is a suffi- 
cient definition to say that his method was the sympa- 
thetic. In the end the reader is put in possession of the 
luminous and complete idea upon which the author has 
been brooding, though he may not be able to say exactly 
how the impression has been conveyed to him; and I 
doubt if the author could have explained his sympathetic 
process. . . . 

''Irving's position in American literature, or in that of 
the English tongue, will only be determined by the slow 
settling of opinion which no critic can foretell, and the 
operation of which no criticism seems able to explain. 
. . . The service that he rendered to American letters 
no critic disputes ; nor is there any question of our national 
indebtedness to him for investing a crude and new land 
with the enduring charms of romance and tradition. In 
this respect, our obligation to him is that of Scotland to 
Scott and Burns; and it is an obligation due only, in all 
history, to here and there a fortunate creator to whose 
genius opportunity is kind. The Knickerbocker Legend 
and the romance with which Irving has invested the 
Hudson are a priceless legacy." 

Brander Matthews. 



SUGCxESTIONS FOR TEACHERS 

Full information concerning Irving's life can be found 
in ''The Life and Letters of Washington Irving," by his 
nephew, Pierre M. Irving (four volumes, New York, G. P. 
Putnam, 1862), and in Mr. Charles Dudley Warner's com- 
pact biography in the ''American Men of Letters Series," 
(Houghton, Mifflin, and Company, 1881). 

Criticisms of Irving's work, in addition to the Introduc- 
tion contained in this volume, will be found in Mr. Charles 
Dudley Warner's lecture, "The Work of Washington 
Irving" (Harper and Brothers, "Black and White Series," 
1893); in one of the chapters of George William Curtis's 
"Literary and Social Essays" (Harper and Brothers, 
1895) ; in an oration of Bryant's on Irving's life, character, 
and genius, delivered in 1860 before the New York His- 
torical Society, and published in "Studies of Irving" 
(G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1880); and in the essay called 
"Nil Nisi Bonum," written just after Irving's death and 
since reprinted in the volume of "Roundabout Papers," 
in which Thackeray paid his respects finally to the Ameri- 
can author. Mr. Thomas A. Janvier's articles in the 
Century for 1890-91, since published in book form under 
the title of "In Old New York" (1894), will be found 
interesting in connection with Irving's colonial tales. 

A list of Irving's works will be found in the Chronologi- 
cal Table, which is so arranged as to show not merely the 
sequence of his works and the main events of his life, but 
the principal works in English and American literature 
that appeared during his lifetime, and the dates of the 
births and deaths of some of the more important of his 



xxii SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHERS 

contemporaries. A study of the table will give not a little 
information in regard to the development of English and 
American literature during the nineteenth century. 

Instruction in English in the secondary schools is now 
so well organized, and good methods are so well under- 
stood, that it is unnecessary to describe here the cus- 
tomary treatment in the classroom of such a volume as 
the ''Sketch-Book." It may be well, however, to sug- 
gest that, particularly with young pupils, it may not 
prove advisable to read all the sketches, or to read them 
in the order in which the author arranged them. Some 
will prove more difficult, or less interesting, than others, 
and the grouping is not of especial importance. 

The main value of the book for our purposes is that 
it serves as an admirable introduction both to composition 
and to literature. With so excellent a model before his 
eyes, the pupil can scarcely fail to improve his own style; 
and he will as certainly learn to appreciate that revelation 
of individuality in which lies the charm of genuine litera- 
ture. Moreover, the ''Sketch-Book" will open the way 
for the "Tales of a Traveller," and that for Irving's other 
volumes of description and narrative, until the pupil will 
find himself with a well formed habit for good reading. 
A better author for boys and girls of fourteen to sixteen 
could scarcely be found. Like Macaulay, he is full of 
allusions, and herein lies not only part of his charm but 
much of his educative value, for these very allusions, 
unlike those of Macaulay, are rarely such as send one ta 
the dictionary and the encyclopaedia; they explain them- 
selves, for the most part,— at least, in the long run— and 
build up for the young reader a mass of information that 
is really worth having. One has only to read Irving— 
to keep reading Irving — and he will rapidly become 
familiar with that somewhat desultory store of traditional 
fact and fancy that is so large an ingredient in the mak- 
ing of a cultivated man or woman. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 



XXlll 



1 


c.e.s 

ill 


1794. Bryant born. 
1796. Burns died. 

1803. Emerson born. 

1807. Longfellow born. 

1809. Holmes Lincoln, 
Poe, Tennyson, Dar- 
win, Gladstone born. 

1811. Thackeray born. 

1812. Dickens, Brown- 
ing born. 

1819. Lowell, Ruskin 

born. 
1821. Keats died. 


1822. Shelley died. 

Matthew Arnold 

born. 
1824. Byron died. 


E- 

«: 
b: 

Ed 

M 


1793. Burns, Poems. 

1798. Wordsworth and 
Coleridge, Lyrical Bal- 
lads. 

1805. Scott, Lay of the 
Last Minstrel. 

1808. Scott, Marmion. 

1810. Scott, Lady of the 
Lake. 

1812. Byron, Childe Har- 
old (Cantos I. and II.). 

1814. Scott, Waverley. 

1816. Shelley. Alastor. 

1817. Moore, Lalla 
Rookh. 

1818. Keats, Endymion. 

1821. De Qiiincey, Con- 
fessions of an Opium 
Eater. 

1822. Lamb, Essays of 
Elia. 

1825. Macaulay, Essay 

on Milton. 
1830. Tennyson, Poems, 

chiefly Lyrical. 


a 

IS 

?: 

o 
S 
3 

«5l 




1817. Bryant, Thana- 
topsis. 

1821. Cooper, The Spy. 


00 00 


s: 
o 

o 

> 

03 




1807-8. (With Paulding) 

Salmagundi. 
1809. Knickerbocker's 

History of New York. 

1819-20. Sketch-Book. 


1822. Bracebridge Hall. 
1824. Tales of a Trav- 
eller. 

1828. Life and Voyages 
of Columbus. 

1829. The Conquest of 
Grenada. 




1 


d 




1804-6. First travels in 
Europe: Italy, France, 
England. 

1806. Admitted to the 
bar. 

1810. Became a member 
of his brother's busi- 
ness firm. 

1811-15. Editor of the 
Analectic Magazine. 

1814. Governor's aide- 
de-camp. 

1815-20. In England. 

1820-26. In England, 
France, and Germany. 


1826-29. In Spain. 

1829. Appointed Secre- 
taPy of Legation at the 
Court of St. James. 



XXIV 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 





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THE 



SKETCH-BOOK 



OP 



GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent 



" I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other 
men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts; which, methinks, are 
diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or scene." — Burton. 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 

The following papers, with two exceptions, were written 
in England, and formed but part of an intended series, for 
which I had made notes and memorandums. Before I 
could mature a plan, however, circumstances compelled 
me to send them piecemeal to the United States, where 
they were published from time to time in portions or num- 
bers. It was not my intention to publish them in Eng- 
land, being conscious that much of their contents would 
be interesting only to American readers, and in truth, be- 
ing deterred by the severity with which American pro- 
ductions had been treated by the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had ap- 
peared in this occasional manner, they began to find their 
way across the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many 
kind encomiums, in the London Literary Gazette. It was 
said, also, that a London bookseller intended to publish 
them in a collective form. I determined, therefore, to 
bring them forward myself, that they might at least have 
the benefit of my superintendence and revision. I accord- 
ingly took the printed numbers which I had received 
from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent 
publisher, from whom I had already received friendly at- 
tentions, and left them with him for examination, in- 
forming him that should he be inclined to bring them 
before the public, I had materials enough on hand for a 
second volume. Several days having elapsed without 
any communication from Mr. Murra} , I addressed a note 
to him, in which I construed his silence into a tacit rejec- 
tion of my work, and begged that the numbers I had left 



4 • PREFACE 

with him might be returned to me. The following was 
his reply: 

My dear Sir, — 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by 
your kind intentions towards me, and that I entertain 
the most unfeigned respect for your most tasteful talents. 
My house is completely filled with workpeople at this 
time, and I have only an office to transact business in; 
and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I should have 
done myself the pleasure of seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of 
your present work, it is only because I do not see that 
scope in the nature of it which would enable me to make 
those satisfactory accounts between us, without which I 
really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I will do all I 
can to promote their circulation, and shall be most ready 
to attend to any future plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 



This was disheartening, and might have deterred me 
from any further prosecution of the matter, had the ques- 
tion of republication in Great Britain rested entirely with 
me; but I apprehended the appearance of a spurious edi- 
tion. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as pub- 
lisher, having been treated by him with much hospitality 
during a visit to Edinburgh; but first I determined to sub- 
mit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being encour- 
aged to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced 
from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and by 
the favorable opinion he had expressed to others of my 
earlier writings. I accordingly sent him the printed num- 
bers of the " Sketch-Book " in a parcel by coach, and at the 
same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had had the 
pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken 
place in my affairs which made the successful exercise of 
my pen all-important to me; I begged him, therefore, to 



PREFACE 5 

look over the literary articles I had forwarded to him, and, 
if he thought they would bear European republication, to 
ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to 
be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's 
address in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his resi- 
dence in the country. By the very first post I received 
a reply, before he had seen my work. 

''I was down at Kelso," said he, ''when your letter 
reached Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and 
will converse with Constable, and do all in my power to 
forward your views — I assure you nothing will give 
me more pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck 
the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical 
and efficient good will which belonged to his nature, he 
had already devised a way of aiding me. 

A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about 
to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respect- 
able talents, and amply furnished with all the necessary 
information. The appointment of the editor, for which 
ample funds were provided, would be five hundred pounds 
sterling a year, with the reasonable prospect of further 
advantages. This situation, being apparently at his dis- 
posal, he frankly offered to me. The work, however, he 
intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, 
and he expressed an apprehension that the tone it was 
desired to adopt might not suit me. ''Yet I risk the 
question," added he, "because I know no man so well 
qualified for this important task, and perhaps because it 
will necessarily ^ bring you to Edinburgh. If my pro- 
posal does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret, 
and there is no harm done. ' And for my love I pray you 
wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could be 
made to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, ad- 
dressing Castle-street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, "I 
am just come here, and have glanced over the ' Sketch 



6 PREFACE 

Book.' It is positively beautiful, and increases my de- 
sire to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties 
there always are in managing such a matter, especially at 
the outset; but we will obviate them as much as we 
possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, 
which underwent some modifications in the copy sent: 

'^I cannot express how much I am gratified by your 
letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwar- 
rantable liberty ; but, somehow or other, there is a genial 
sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing into 
heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both sur- 
prises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion 
of my talents than I have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly 
unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my 
political opinions, but by the very constitution and habits 
of my mind. '^My whole course of life," I observed, 
''has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodi- 
cally recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or 
mind. I have no command of my talents, such as they 
are, and have to watch the varyings of my minds as I 
would those of a weather-cock. Practice and training 
may bring me more into rule; but at present I am as use- 
less for regular service as one of my own country Indians 
or a Don Cossack. 

''I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have be- 
gun; writing when I can, not when I would. I shall oc- 
casionally shift my residence and write whatever is sug- 
gested by objects before me, or whatever rises in my im- 
agination; and hope to write better and more copiously 
by and by. 

'' I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of 
answering your proposal than by showing what a very 
good-for-nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Con- 
stable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares I have 
on hand, he will encourage me to further enterprise; and 
it will be something like trading with a gipsy for the fruits 



PREFACE 7 

of his prowlings, who may at one time have nothing but 
a wooden bowl to offer, and at another time a silver 
tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at 
my declining what might have proved a troublesome 
duty. He then recurred to the original subject of our 
correspondence; entered into a detail of the various terms 
upon which arrangements were made between authors and 
booksellers, that 1 might take my choice; expressing the 
most encouraging confidence of the success of my work, 
and of previous works which I had produced in Anrerica. 
" I did no more," added he, " than open the trenches with 
Constable; but I am sure if you will take the trouble to 
write to him, you will find him disposed to treat your 
overtures with every degree of attention. Or, if you 
think it of consequence in the first place to see me, I shall 
be in London in the course of a month, and whatever my 
experience can command is most heartil}' at your com- 
mand. But I can add little to what I have said above, 
except my earnest recommendation to Constable to enter 
into the negotiation. "^ 

Before the receipt of the most obliging letter, however, 
I had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a 

1 I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of 
Scott's letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of 
our correspondence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some 
time previously I had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo 
American editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh in 
quarto volumes; showing the "nigromancy" of the American 
press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. 
Scott observes : "In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia's 
name for the kind attention which furnished her with the American 
\''olumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have 
made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than she would 
ever otherwise have learned; for I had taken special care they should 
never see any of those things during their earlier years. I thmk I 
told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament with a feather like 
a maypole and indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe — 
in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th 
dragoons." 



8 PREFACE 

launch, but to throw my work before the public at my 
own risk, and let it sink or swim according to its merits. 
I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon received a reply : 

''I observe with pleasure that you are going to come 
forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to 
publish on one's own account; for the booksellers set their 
face against the circulation of such works as do not pay 
an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the 
art of altogether damming up the road in such cases be- 
tween the author and the public, which they were once 
able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's 
'Holy War' closed up the windows of my Lord Under- 
standing's mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you 
have only to be known to the British public to be admired 
by them, and I would not say so unless I really was of 
that opinion. 

''If you ever see a witty but rather local publication 
called Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, you will find 
some notice of your works iii the last number: the author 
is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced you in 
your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young 
man of very considerable talent, and who will soon be 
intimately connected with my family. My faithful friend 
Knickerbocker is to be next examined and illustrated. 
Constable was extremely willing to enter into considera- 
tion of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still 
more so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 

And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in 

London about the middle of the month, and promise my- 
self great pleasure in once again shaking you by the 
hand." 

The first volume of the '' Sketch-Book " was put to press 
in London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a book- 
seller unknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts 
by which a work is trumpeted into notice. Still some 



PREFACE 9 

attention had been called to it by the extracts which had 
previously appeared in the Literary Gazette, and by the 
kind word spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it 
was getting into fair circulation, when my worthy book- 
seller failed before the first month was over, and the sale 
was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to 
him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more pro- 
pitious than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the 
wheel. Through his favorable representations, Murray 
was quickly induced to undertake the future publication 
of the work which he had previously declined. A further 
edition of the first volume was struck off and the second 
volume was put to press, and from that time Murray be- 
came my publisher, conducting himself in all his dealings 
with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had obtained 
for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of 
Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter 
Scott, I began my literary career in Europe; and I feel 
that I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of 
gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in 
acknowledging my obligations to him. — But who of his 
literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or 
counsel that did not experience the most prompt, gen- 
erous, and effectual assistance! 

W. I. 

SUNNYSIDE, 1848. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 

"I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out 
of her shel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced 
to make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from his 
owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a 
shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to 
live where he can, not where he would." 

Lyly's Euphues. 



I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere 
child I began my travels, and made many tours of dis- 
covery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my 
native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the 
emolument of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I 
extended the range of my observations. My holiday 
afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding 
country. I made myself familiar with all its places fa- 
mous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a 
murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. 
I visited the neighboring villages, and added greatly to 
my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and cus- 
toms, and conversing with their sages and great men. I 
even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of 
the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye over 
many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find 
how vast a globe I inhabited. 



12 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in 
devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exer- 
cises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about 
the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting 
ships, bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes 
would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself 
in imagination to the ends of the earth! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought 
this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only 
served to make it more decided. I visited various parts 
of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine 
scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its 
gratification, for on no country have the charms of nature 
been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like 
oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright 
aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her 
tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her 
boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her 
broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; 
her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its 
magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of sum- 
mer clouds and glorious sunshine; — no, never need an 
American look beyond his own country for the sublime 
and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poet- 
ical association. There were to be seen the masterpieces 
of art, the refinements of highly-cultivated society, the 
quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My 
native country was full of youthful promise: Europe was 
rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins 
told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering 
stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes 
of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the 
footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — 
to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, 
from the common-place realities of the present, and lose 
myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 13 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desir^ to see the great 
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in 
America: not a city but has an ample share of them. I 
have mingled among them in my time, and been almost 
withered by the shade into which they cast me; for there 
is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great 
one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was 
anxious to see the great men of Europe; for I had read in 
the works of various philosophers, that all animals de- 
generated in America, and man among the number. A 
great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as 
superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps 
to a highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I was con- 
firmed, by observing the comparative importance and 
sw^elling magnitude of many English travellers among us, 
who, I was assured, were very little people in their own 
country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought I, 
and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my rov- 
ing passion gratified. I have wandered through different 
countries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of 
fife. I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye 
of a philosopher; but rather with the sauntering gaze 
with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from 
the window of one print-shop to another; caught some- 
times by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the 
distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness 
of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to 
travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios 
filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the 
entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look 
over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for 
the purpose, my heart almost fails me at finding how my 
idle humor has led me aside from the great objects studied 
by every regular traveller who would make a book. I 
fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky 
landscape painter, who had travelled on the continent, 
but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had 



14 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His 
sketch-book was accordingly crowned with cottages, and 
landscapes, and obscure ruins; but he had neglected to 
paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum; the cascade of Terni, 
or the bay of Naples; and had not a single glacier or 
volcano in his whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you. 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go "I* 

Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has 
to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary ab- 
sence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state 
of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impres- 
sions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemi- 
spheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no 
gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features 
and population of one country blend almost impercep- 
tibly with those of another. From the moment you lose 
sight of the land you have left all is vacancy until you 
step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into 
the bustle and novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and 
a connected succession of persons and incidents, that 
carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence 
and separation. We drag, it is true, "a lengthening 
chain," at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain 
is unbroken: we can trace it back link by link; and we feel 
that the last still grapples us to home. But a wide sea 



16 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of be- 
ing cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, 
and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a 
gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our 
homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncer- 
tainty, rendering distance palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in 
the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the 
world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, 
before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing 
from my view, which contained all most dear to me in 
life; what vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes 
might take place in me, before I should visit it again! 
Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he 
may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence; or 
when he may return; or whether it may ever be his lot to 
revisit the scenes of his childhood? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the 
expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
for meditation; but then they are the wonders of the deep, 
and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from 
worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter- 
railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse 
for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's 
sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering 
above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and 
people them with a creation of my own; — to watch the 
gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as 
if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on 
the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. 
Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; 
the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the 
surface; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, 
through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure 



THE VOYAGE 17 

up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- 
neath me; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless 
valleys; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the 
very foundations of the earth; and of those wild phan- 
tasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin 
the great mass of existence! What a glorious monu- 
ment of human invention; which has in a manner tri- 
umphed over wind and wave; has brought the ends of the 
world into communion; has established an interchange of 
blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all 
the luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of knowl- 
edge and the charities of cultivated hfe; and has thus 
bound together those scattered portions of the human 
race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an 
insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 
a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monot- 
ony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It 
proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been com- 
pletely wrecked; for there were the remains of handker- 
chiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened them- 
selves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by 
the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the 
ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently 
drifted about for many months; clusters of shell-fish had 
fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its 
sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their strug- 
gle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the 
roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening among the 
caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, 
have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of 
their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship! 
what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! 
How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored 
over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of 
2 



18 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened 
into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into de- 
spair! Alas! not one memento may ever return for love 
to cherish. All that may ever be known, is, that she 
sailed from her port, ''and was never heard of more!" 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- 
mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the 
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, 
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications 
of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes break 
in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat 
round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the 
gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck 
and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one 
related by the captain. 

''As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy 
fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible 
for us to see far ahead even in the daytime; but at night 
the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish 
any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights 
at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look 
out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at 
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the 
water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 'a sail 
ahead!' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon 
her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her 
broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had 
neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid- 
ships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore 
her down below the waves; we passed over her and were 
hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sink- 
ing beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half- 
naked wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started 
from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. 
I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The 
blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther 



THE VOYAGE 19 

hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some 
time before we could put the ship about, she was under 
such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could 
guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We 
cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We 
fired signal guns, and listened if we might bear the halloo 
of any survivors: but all was silent — we never saw or 
heard any thing of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The 
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a 
fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. 
Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of 
clouds over head seemed rent asunder by flashes of light- 
ning which quivered along the foaming billows, and made 
the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders 
bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed 
and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the 
ship staggering and plunging among these roaring cav- 
erns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, 
or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into 
the water: her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. 
Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to over- 
whelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the 
helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging 
sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, 
the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship 
labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard 
the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring 
in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round 
this floating prison, seeking for his prey: the mere starting 
of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It 
is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine 
weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked 



20 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 
gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she 
appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time 
to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
"land!'' was given from the mast-head. None but those 
who have experienced it can form an idea of the deli- 
cious throng of sensations which rush into an American's 
bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a 
volume of associations with the very name. It is the 
land of promise, teeming with every thing of which his 
childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have 
pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coasts; the headlands of Ireland, 
stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains, 
towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense inter- 
est. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the 
shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on 
neat cottages, with their trim shubberies and green grass 
plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun 
with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from 
the brow of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of 
England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged 
with people; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expect- 
ants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the mer- 
chant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by 
his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were 
thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, 
and walking to and fro, a small space having been ac- 
corded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary 
importance. There were repeated cheerings and saluta- 
tions interchanged between the shore and the ship, as 



THE VOYAGE 21 

friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly 
noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interest- 
ing demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the 
crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, 
to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed dis- 
appointed and agitated; when I heard a faint voice call her 
name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the 
voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on 
board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had 
spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of 
late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his 
hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see 
his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as 
we came up the river, and was now leaning against the 
shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, 
that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not 
recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye 
darted on his features; it read, at once, a whole volume of 
sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and 
stood wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- 
quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consultations 
of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had 
no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon 
the land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger 
in the land. 



ROSCOE 



-In the service of mankind to be 



A guardian god below; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in 
Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal 
and judicious plan; it contains a good library, and spacious 
reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place.' 
Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it 
filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in 
the study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my 
attention was attracted to a person just entering the 
room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that 
might once have been commanding, but it was a little 
bowed by time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Ro- 
man style of countenance; a head that would have pleased 
a painter; and though some slight furrows on his brow 
showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet 
his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There 
was something in his whole appearance that indicated a 
being of a different order from the bustling race around 
him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was 
Roscoe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of ven- 
eration. This, then, was an author of celebrity; this was 
one of those men, whose voices have gone forth to the ends 
of the earth; with whose minds I have communed even in 



ROSCOE * 23 

the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our 
country, to know European writers only by their works, 
we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed 
by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd 
of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass 
before our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with 
the emanations of their genius, and surrounded by a halo 
of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, 
mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked 
my poetical ideas; but it is from the very circumstances 
and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Ros- 
coe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is inter- 
esting to notice how some minds seem almost tQ create 
themselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and 
working their solitary but irresistible way through a 
thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disap- 
pointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear 
legitimate dulness to maturity; and to glory in the vigor 
and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters 
the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may 
perish among the stony places of the world, and some be 
choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, 
yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts 
of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread 
over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a 
place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; 
in the very market-place of trade; without fortune, family 
connections, or patronage; self-prompted, self-sustained, 
and almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, 
achieved his way to eminence, and, having become one of 
the ornaments of the nation, has turned the whole force 
of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his 
native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has 
given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced 
me particularly to point him out to my countrymen. 



24 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but one among 
the many distinguished authors of this intellectual nation. 
They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or 
their own pleasures. Their private history presents no 
lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of hu- 
man frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone 
to steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy 
existence; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease; 
and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the 
accorded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in 
no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy; but has gone 
forth into the highways and thoroughfares of life; he has 
planted bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the 
pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, 
where the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and 
heat of the day, and drink of the living streams- of knowl- 
edge. There is a '' daily beauty in his life," on which man- 
kind may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no 
lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of 
excellence; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and 
imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but 
which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this 
world would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of 
the citizens of our young and busy country, where litera- 
ture and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with 
the coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must depend for 
their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and 
wealth, nor the quickening rays of titled patronage, but 
on hours and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly 
interests, by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in 
hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely 
it can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like 
his own Lorenzo De' Medici, on whom he seems to have 
fixed his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has inter- 
woven the history of his life with the history of his native 



ROSCOE 25 

town, and has made the foundations of its fame the mon- 
uments of his virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, 
you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant 
and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely 
in the channels of traffick; he has diverted from it invig- 
orating rills to refresh the garden of literature. By his 
own example and constant exertions he has effected that 
union of commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so elo- 
quently recommended in one of his latest writings :i and 
has practically proved how beautifully they may be 
brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The 
noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, 
which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such 
an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been origi- 
nated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. 
Roscoe; and when we consider the rapidl}^ increasing 
opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to 
vie in commercial importance with the metropolis, it will 
be perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental 
improvement among its inhabitants, he has effected a 
great benefit to the cause of British literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — 
in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told 
of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not 
pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him 
far above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the 
world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns 
of adversity; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome 
by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in 
upon the resources of his own mind; to the superior soci- 
ety of his own thoughts; which the best of men are apt 
sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of 
less worthy associates. He is independent of the world 
around him. He lives with antiquity and posterity; 
with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious re- 
tirement; and with posterity, in the generous aspirings 

1 Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



26 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its 
state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those 
elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of 
noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the 
wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was 
my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I 
was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of 
Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some 
ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we 
came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the 
Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had 
an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A 
fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of 
trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a 
variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a 
broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green 
meadow-land; while the Welsh mountains, blended with 
clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe 's favorite residence during the days of 
his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospi- 
tality and literary retirement. The house was now silent 
and deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which 
looked not upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The 
windows were closed — the library was gone. Two or 
three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, 
whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It 
was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once 
welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry 
and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over 
the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which 
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of 
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 
It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and 
was dispersed about the country. The good people of the 
vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the 
noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a 



ROSCOE 27 

scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine 
something whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions 
of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, 
and contending for the possession of weapons which they 
could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some 
knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over 
the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete 
author; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with 
which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into 
the black-letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's 
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the 
studious mind, that the parting wdth his books seems to 
have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have 
been the only circumstance that could provoke the no- 
tice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear 
these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts 
and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. 
When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these 
only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, 
and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility 
and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered coun- 
tenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friend- 
ship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of 
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to 
Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library w^ould never have 
been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given 
for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to com- 
bat with others that might seem merely fanciful; but it 
certainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom oc- 
curs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfor- 
tunes, by one of the most delicate, but most expressive 
tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to 
estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our 
eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other 
men. His great qualities lose their novelty, we become 
too familiar with the common materials which form the 



28 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's 
townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business; 
others as a politician; all find him engaged like them- 
selves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, 
by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even 
that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, 
which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, may 
cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who 
do not know that true worth is always void of glare and 
pretension. But the man of letters, who speaks of Liver- 
pool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. — The intel- 
ligent traveller who visits it inquires where Roscoe is 
to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the place, indi- 
cating its existence to the distant scholar. — He is, like 
Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic 
dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his 
books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding 
article. If any thing can add effect to the pure feeling 
and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction 
that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful tran- 
script from the writer's heart. 

TO MY BOOKS. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 

And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers. 

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



THE WIFE 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth. 
The violet bed's no^ sweeter. 

MiDDLETON. 

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of 
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all 
the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and 
elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to 
sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold 
a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and 
dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while 
treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in 
mental force to be the comforter and support of her hus- 
band under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking 
firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, 
when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling 
round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- 
tered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, 
that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of 
man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace 
when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into 
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the 
drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 



30 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around 
him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest 
affection. ''I can wish you no better lot/' said he, with 
enthusiasm, ''than to have a wife and children. If you 
are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; 
if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, 
I have observed that a married man falling into misfor- 
tune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world 
than a single one; partly because he is more stimulated to 
exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved 
beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but chiefly 
because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic 
endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, 
that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet 
there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is 
the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to 
waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and aban- 
doned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted 
mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations' call to mind a little domestic story, 
of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Les- 
lie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who 
had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She 
had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was 
ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging 
her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those 
delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery 
about the sex. — ''Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy 
tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an 
harmonious combination: he was of a romantic and some- 
what serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have 
often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze 
upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made 
her the delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her 
eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought 
favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her 
slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. 



THE WIFE 31 

The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him 
seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cher- 
ishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for 
its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on 
the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a 
•fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have 
embarked his property in large speculations; and he had 
not been married many months, when, by a succession of 
sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found 
himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept 
his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard 
countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a 
protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupport- 
able was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the pres- 
ence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to over- 
whelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the 
quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. 
She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was 
not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at 
cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and 
tender blandishments to win him back to happiness; but 
she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more 
he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the 
thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A 
little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from 
that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the 
lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow; and 
the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, 
will be weighed down like mine, by the cares and miseries 
of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard 
him through I inquired, ''Does your wife know all this?" 
— At the question he burst into an agony of tears. ''For 
God's sake! " cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't 
mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me 
almost to madness!" 



32 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

''And why not?" said I. ''She must know it sooner or 
later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelli- 
gence may break upon her in a more startling manner, 
than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we 
love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are de- 
priving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and 
not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that 
can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of 
thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that some- 
thing is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love 
will not brook reserve; it feels undervalued and outraged, 
when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed 
from it.'' 

" Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to give 
to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very 
soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a 
beggar! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all 
the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indigence 
and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down 
irom the sphere in which she might have continued to 
move in constant brightness — the hght of every eye — the 
admiration of every heart! — How can she bear poverty? 
she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. 
How can she bear neglect? she has been the idol of society. 
Oh! it will break her heart — it will break her heart! — " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm 
had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I 
resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his 
situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mourn- 
fully, but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary 
she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to 
the alteration of your circumstances. You must change 

your style of living nay," observing a pang to pass 

across his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I 
am sure you have never placed your happiness in out- 
ward show — you have yet friends, warm friends, who will 



THE WIFE 33 

not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : 
and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with 
Mary " 

"I could be happy with her/' cried he, convulsively, 
"in a hovel! — I could go down with her into poverty and 
the dust! — I could — I could — God bless her! — God bless 
her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and 
tenderness. 

''And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and 
grasping him warmly by the hand, ''believe me she can be 
the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride 
and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent ener- 
gies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will 
rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There 
is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, 
which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; 
but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark 
hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his 
bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is 
— until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of 
this world." 

There w^as something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the 
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had 
to deal with; and following up the impression I had made, 
I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his 
sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt 
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate 
on the fortitude of one whose life has been a round of 
pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark down- 
ward path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, 
and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had 
hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is 
accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which 
in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could not 
meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He 
had made the disclosure. 



34 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

''And how did she bear it?" 

"Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked 
if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, 
poor girl," added he, ''she cannot realize the change we 
must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the 
abstract; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is 
allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; she suffers no 
loss of accustomed conveniencies nor elegancies. When 
we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry 
wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the sever- 
est task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the 
world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be 
mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon over: 
whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every 
hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence, 
that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud 
mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show 
that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to 
appear poor and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." 
On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had 
no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only 
anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small 
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had 
been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new 
establishment required few articles, and those of the sim- 
plest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late resi- 
dence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he 
said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself; 
it belonged to the little story of their loves; for some of 
the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when 
he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the 
melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this 
instance .of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 



THE WIFE 35 

been all day superintending its arrangement. My feel- 
ings had become strongly interested in the progress of 
this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered 
to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

''Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
his lips. 

''And what of her?" asked I: "has any thing happened 
to her?" 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it 
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged 
in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the 
menial concerns of her wretched habitation?" 

"Has she then repined at the change?" 

"Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and 
good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I 
have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and 
tenderness, and comfort!" 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself 
poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew 
the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that 
woman." 

"Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this 
is her first day of real experience; she has been introduced 
into a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day 
in arranging its miserable equipments — she has, for the 
first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment — 
she has, for the first time, looked round her on a home des- 
titute of every thing elegant, — almost of every thing con- 
venient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and 
spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I 
could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete 
air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was 



36 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral 
poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine 
had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few 
trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I ob- 
served several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about 
the door, and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket 
gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some 
shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we 
heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm; we 
paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a 
style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which 
her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped 
forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise 
on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out 
at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard 
— and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a 
pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted 
in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole 
countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her 
look so lovely. 

''My dear George," cried she, ''I am so glad you are 
come! I have been watching and watching for you; and 
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've 
set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cot- 
tage; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious 
strawberries, for I know you are fond of them — and we 
have such excellent cream — and every thing is so sweet 
and still, here — Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, 
and looking up brightly in his face, ''Oh, we shall be so 
happy!" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his 
bosom — he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again 
and again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into 
his eyes; and he has often assured me, that though the 
world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life 
has, indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experi- 
enced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — 

Cartwright. 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New 
York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the 
province, and the manners of the descendants from its 
primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, 
did not lie so much among books as among men; for the 
former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; 
whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their 
wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true 
history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a 
genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed 
farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon 
it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied 
it with the zeal of a book-worm. 

The results of all these researches was a history of the 
province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which 
he published some years since. There have been various 
opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to 
tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. 
Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed 
was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has 
since been completely established; and it is now admitted 
into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable 
authority. 



38 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication 
of his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot 
do much harm to his memory to say that his time might 
have been better employed in weightier labors. He, 
however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and 
though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in 
the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some 
friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affec- 
tion; yet his errors and follies are remembered ''more in 
sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that 
he never intended to injure or offend. But however his 
memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear 
by many folk, whose good opinion is well worth having; 
particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so 
far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes; 
and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost 
equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a 
Queen Anne's Farthing.] 



Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must re- 
member the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismem- 
bered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are 
seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble 
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. 
Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, 
every hour of the day, produces some change in the mag- 
ical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are 
regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect 
barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they 
are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold out- 
lines on the clear evening sky; but, sometimes, when the 
rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood 
of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays 
of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of 
glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 
whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where 



RIP VAN WINKLE 39 

the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green 
of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great 
antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch 
colonists, in the early times of the province, just about 
the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- 
vesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of the 
houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, 
built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, hav- 
ing latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with 
weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while 
the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple 
good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He 
was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so 
gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and 
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He in- 
herited, however, but little of the martial character of 
his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple 
good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, 
and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the 
latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit 
which gained him such universal popularity; for those 
men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating 
abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. 
Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malle- 
able in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a 
curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for 
teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A 
termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be con- 
sidered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle 
was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the 
good wives of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable 
sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never 
failed, whenever, they talked those matters over in their 
evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van 



40 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout 
with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their 
sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites 
and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about 
the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hang- 
ing on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a 
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog 
would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper- 
able aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could 
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he 
would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as 
a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even 
though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. 
He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours 
together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up 
hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild 
pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country 
frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences; 
the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run 
their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less 
obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word 
Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his 
own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm 
in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in 
the whole country; every thing about it went wrong, and 
would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were con- 
tinually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray 
or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow 
quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always 
made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door 
work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had 
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, 
until there was little more left than a mere patch of In- 



RIP VAN WINKLE 41 

dian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned 
farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they be- 
longed to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in 
his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the 
old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping 
like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his 
father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in 
bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be 
got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve 
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he 
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; 
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his 
idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on 
his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was 
incessantly going, and every thing he said or did was sure 
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had 
but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and 
that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He 
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, 
but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a 
"fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain^to draw off 
his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only 
side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van 
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of 
his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points 
of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous 
an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage 
can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors 
of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the 
house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or 



42 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows 
air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, 
and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would 
fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows 
with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that 
grows keener with constant use. For a long while he 
used to console himself, when driven from home, by fre- 
quenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philos- 
ophers, and other idle personages of the village; which 
held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated 
by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. 
Here they used to sit in the shade through a long Jazy 
summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or 
telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it 
would have been worthy any statesman's money to have 
heard the profound discussions that sometimes took 
place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their 
hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they 
would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick 
Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little 
man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic 
word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would de- 
liberate upon public events some months after they had 
taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled 
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and land- 
lord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from 
morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the 
sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that the 
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accur- 
ately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to 
speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, 
however (for every great man has his adherents), per- 
fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opin- 
ions. When any thing that was read or related displeased 
him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and 



RIP VAN WINKLE 43 

to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when 
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, 
and emit it in light and placid clouds; and sometimes, 
taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in 
token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly 
break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call 
the members all to naught; nor was that august person- 
age, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring 
tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright 
with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his 
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and 
clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll a- 
way into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat 
himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his 
wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow- 
sufferer in persecution. '^Poor Wolf," he would say, 
''thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, 
my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to 
stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully 
in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily be- 
lieve he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day. 
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 
parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his 
favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes 
had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his gun. 
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the after- 
noon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, 
that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening 
between the trees he could overlook all the lower country 
for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance 
the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its 
silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple 
cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleep- 



44 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

ing on its glassy bosom, and at last .losing itself in the 
blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain 
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with 
fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted 
by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time 
Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually ad- 
vancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue 
shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark 
long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors 
of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
distance, hallooing, ''Rip Van Winkle!" ''Rip Van 
Winkle!'' He looked round, but could see nothing but a 
crow winging its solitary flight across the mountains. He 
thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned 
again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through 
the still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Win- 
kle!" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and 
giving a growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fear- 
fully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague appre- 
hension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the 
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toil- 
ing up the rocks, and bending under the weight of some- 
thing he carried on his back. He was surprised to see 
any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, 
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a 
short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and 
a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch 
fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — sev- 
eral pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, 
decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bun- 
ches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, 
that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to ap- 



RIP VAN WINKLE 45 

proach and assist him with the load. Though rather 
shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip com- 
plied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving one 
another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently 
the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, 
Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like dis- 
tant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, 
or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their 
rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but 
supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient 
thunder-showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine,, they 
came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded 
by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which 
impending trees shot their branches, so that you only 
caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening 
cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion 
had labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of 
liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that 
inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was 
a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine- 
pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; 
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives 
in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, 
of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, 
too, were peculiar: one had a large beard, broad face, and 
small piggish eyes: the face of another seemed to consist 
entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar- 
loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had 
beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who 
seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentle- 
man, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced 
doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and 
feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses 



46 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures 
in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van 
Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, 
and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure 
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness 
of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever 
they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rum- 
bling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with 
such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, 
lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within 
him, and his knees smote together. His companion now 
emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and 
made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed 
with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in pro- 
found silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste 
the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of 
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and 
was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste pro- 
voked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon 
so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his 
eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and 
he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence 
he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his 
eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 
hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle 
was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain 
breeze. ''Surely," thought Rip, ''I have not slept here 
all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the 



RIP VAN WINKLE 47 

mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the 
wobegone party at nine-pins — the flagon — ''Oh! that 
flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip — "what ex- 
cuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle!" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, 
and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the 
grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, 
and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of 
his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled 
after him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes 
repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand 
his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself 
stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. 
''These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought 
Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the 
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van 
Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the 
glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion 
had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonish- 
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leap- 
ing from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its 
sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, 
sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or 
entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils 
or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network 
in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of 
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high 
impenetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling 
in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep 
basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. 



48 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again 
called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by 
the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air 
about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and 
who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and 
scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be 
done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt fam- 
ished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up 
his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would 
not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his 
head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full 
of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, 
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, 
for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in 
the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different 
fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all 
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever 
they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their 
chins. The constant recurrences of this gesture induced 
Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish- 
ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, 
and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of 
which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was 
larger and more populous. There were rows of houses 
which he had never seen before, and those which had been 
his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names 
were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — 
every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him; 
he began to doubt whether both he and the world around 
him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native 
village, which he had left but the day before. There 
stood the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hud- 
son at a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely 
as it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — 



RIP VAN WINKLE 49 

''That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my 
poor head sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to 
his own house, which he approached with silent awe, ex- 
pecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame 
Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the 
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off 
the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf 
was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the 
cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was 
an unkind cut indeed — ''My very dog," sighed poor Rip, 
"has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso- 
lateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called 
loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers 
rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was 
silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety 
wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 
windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats 
and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " the Union 
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great 
tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of 
yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with some- 
thing on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from 
it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assem- 
blage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incom- 
prehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the 
ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked 
so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly 
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of 
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a 
sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and 
underneath was painted in large characters, General 
Washington. 



50 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none that Rip recollected. The very character of 
the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, 
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed 
phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for 
the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double 
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke 
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the school- 
master, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. 
In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently 
about rights of citizens — elections — members of congress 
— liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and 
other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to 
the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the 
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round 
him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. 
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
aside, inquired '^ on which side he voted?" Rip stared in 
vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 
his ear, ''Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip 
was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when 
a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp 
cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting 
them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, 
and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and 
sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, de- 
manded in an austere tone, ''what brought him to the 
election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, 
and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" — 
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I 
am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
subject of the king, God bless him!'' 



RIP VAN WINKLE 51 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — "A 
tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with 
him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-impor- 
tant man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having as- 
sumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the 
unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he 
was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that 
he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of 
some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

''Well — who are they? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
''Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, 
he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a 
wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell 
all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 
war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony 
Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot 
of Anthony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back 
again." 

'^ Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gene- 
ral, and is now in congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes 
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 
in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat- 
ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters 
which he could not understand: war — congress — Stony 
Point; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, 
but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip 
Van Winkle?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, 
to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against 
the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him^ 



52 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

self, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and 
certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely 
confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether 
he was himself or another man. In the midst of his be- 
wilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who 
he was, and what was his name? 

''God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits' end; ''I'm not 
myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — 
that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself 
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 
changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm 
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!'* 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their 
foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing 
the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, 
at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in 
the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this 
critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through 
the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his 
looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, 
you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name 
of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, 
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What 
is your name, my good woman?" asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name?" 

"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but 
it's twenty years since he went away from home with his 
gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came 
home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was 
carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was 
then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it 
with a faltering voice: 

"Where's your mother?" 

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke 



RIP VAN WINKLE 53 

a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England 
peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. 
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. ''I 
am your father!" cried he — ''Young Rip Van Winkle 
once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does nobody know 
poor Rip Van Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 
''Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Wel- 
come home again, old neighbor — Why, where have you 
been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared 
when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, 
and put their tongues in their cheeks: and the self-impor- 
tant man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, 
had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his 
mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a 
general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the 
Toad. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, 
who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. 
Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and 
well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of 
the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and cor- 
roborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He 
assured the company that it was a fact, handed down 
from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill moun- 
tains had always been haunted by strange beings. That 
it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first 
discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil 
there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; 
being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his 
enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and 



54 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the great city called by his name. That his father had 
once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine- 
pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself 
had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, 
like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
and returned to the more important concerns of the elec- 
tion. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; 
she" had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery 
farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the 
urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's 
son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning 
against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; 
but evinced an hereditary disposition -to attend to any 
thing else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 
worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred mak- 
ing friends among the rising generation, with whom he 
soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, 
he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, 
and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, 
and a chronicle of the old times ''before the war." It 
was some time before he could get into the regular track 
of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange 
events that had taken place during his torpor. How 
that there had been a revolutionary war — that the coun- 
try had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, 
instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, 
he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in 
fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires 
made but little impression on him; but there was one 
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, 
and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was 
at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matri- 
mony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, 



RIP VAN WINKLE 55 

without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. 
Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook 
his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; 
which might pass either for an expression of resignation 
to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived 
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to 
vary on some points every time he told it, which was, 
doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It 
at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, 
and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but 
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the 
reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
head, and that this was one point on which he always 
remained flighty. The old Dutch inhat)itants, however, 
almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day 
they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon 
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and 
his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a com- 
mon wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, 
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Em- 
peror Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain: the 
subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows 
that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but 
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old 
Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events 
and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than 
this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well au- 
thenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van 
Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old 
man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, 
that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into 
the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before 



56 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice's own hand- 
writing. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibihty of doubt. 

D. K." 
• 
POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of 
Mr. Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region 
full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who 
influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the land- 
scape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled 
by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the 
highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and 
night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the 
new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times 
of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer 
clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the 
crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, 
to float in the air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would . 
fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, 
and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she 
would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like 
a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds 
broke, wo betide the valleys! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou 
or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Moun- 
tains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils 
and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the 
form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a 
weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged rocks; and 
then spring off with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink 
of a beetling precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great 
rock or cliff in the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the 
flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which 
abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden 
Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary 
bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the 
pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great 
awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not 
pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, 
a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where 
he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One 



RIP VAN WINKLE 57 

of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his re- 
treat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed 
forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, 
where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the 
Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; being the identical 
stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 



"Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing 
herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible 
locks: methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, 
and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full midday beam." 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 



It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the Hter- 
ary animosity daily growing up between England and 
America. Great curiosity has been awakened of late 
with respect to the United States, and the London press 
has teemed with volumes of travels through the Repub- 
lic; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than 
knowledge; and so successful have they been, that, not- 
withstanding the constant intercourse between the na- 
tions, there is no people concerning whom the great mass 
of the British public have less pure information, or enter- 
tain more numerous prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in the 
world. Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, 
none can equal them for profound and philosophical views 
of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of exter- 
nal objects; but when either the interest or reputation of 
their own country comes in collision with that of another, 
they go to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual 
probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, 
and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would place im- 
plicit confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the 
regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile; of unknown 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 59 

islands in the Yellow Sea; of the interior of India; or of 
any other tract which other travellers might be apt to 
picture out with the illusions of their fancies; but I would 
cautiously receive his account of his immediate neigh- 
bors, and of those nations with which he is in habits of 
most frequent intercourse. However I might be disposed 
to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be 
visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While 
men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have 
been sent from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate 
the deserts, and to study the manners and customs of 
barbarous nations, with which she can have no perma- 
nent intercourse of profit or pleasure; it has been left to 
the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, 
the wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birming- 
ham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From 
such sources she is content to receive her information re- 
specting a country in a singular state of moral and physi- 
cal development; a country in which one of the greatest 
political experiments in the history of the world is now 
performing; and which presents the most profound and 
momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of 
America is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers 
for contemplation are too vast and elevated for their 
capacities. The national character is yet in a state of 
fermentation; it may have its frothiness and sediment, 
but its ingredients are sound and wholesome; it has al- 
ready given proofs of powerful and generous qualities; 
and the whole promises to settle down into something 
substantially excellent. But the causes which are oper- 
ating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indica- 
tions of admirable properties, are all lost upon these pur- 
blind observers; who are only affected by the little asper- 
ities incident to its present situation. They are capable 
of judging only of the surface of things; of those matters 
which come in contact with their private interests and 



60 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

personal gratifications. They miss some of the snug con- 
veniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, 
highly-finished, and over-populous state of society; 
where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and many 
earn a painful and servile subsistence by studying the 
very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These 
minor comforts, however, are all-important in the esti- 
mation of narrow minds; which either do not perceive, 
or will not acknowledge, that they are more than counter- 
balanced among us by great and generally diffused 
blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some 
unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may 
have pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, 
where gold and silver abounded, and the natives were 
lacking in sagacity; and where they were to become 
strangely and suddenly rich, in some unforeseen, but easy 
manner. The same weakness of mind that indulges ab- 
surd expectations produces petulance in disappointment. 
Such persons become embittered against the country on 
finding that there, as everywhere else, a man must sow 
before he can reap; must win wealth by industry and 
talent; and must contend with the common difficulties 
of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and enter- 
prising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, 
or from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance 
the stranger, prevalent among my country men,, they may 
have been treated with unwonted respect in America; 
and having been accustomed all their lives to consider 
themselves below the surface of good society, and brought 
up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant 
on the common boon of civility; they attribute to the 
lowliness of others their own elevation; and underrate a 
society where there are no artificial distinctions, and 
where, by any chance, such individuals as themselves 
can rise to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that information coming 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 61 

from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so de- 
sirable, would be received with caution by the censors of 
the press; that the motives of these men, their veracity, 
their opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their 
capacities for judging correctly, would be rigorously 
scrutinized before their evidence was admitted, in such 
sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. The very 
reverse, however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking 
instance of human inconsistency. Nothing can surpass 
the vigilance with which English critics will examine the 
credibility of the traveller who publishes an account of 
some distant, and comparatively unimportant country. 
How warily will they compare the measurements of a 
pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin; and how sternly 
will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions 
of merely curious knowledge: while they will receive, 
with eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrep- 
resentations of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a 
country with which their own is placed in the most impor- 
tant and delicate relations. Nay, they will even make 
these apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge 
with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more generous 
cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hack- 
neyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the 
undue interest apparently taken in it by my country- 
men, and certain injurious effects which I apprehended 
it might produce upon the national feeling. We attach 
too much consequence to these attacks. They cannot 
do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepresenta- 
tions attempted to be woven round us are like cobwebs 
woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country 
continually outgrows them. One falsehood after another 
falls off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day 
we live a whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could for a mo- 
ment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy 
a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing 



62 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

importance, and matchless prosperity. They could not 
conceal that these are owing, not merely to physical and 
local, but also to moral causes — to the political liber- 
ty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of 
sound moral and religious principles, which give force 
and sustained energy to the character of a people; and 
which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonder- 
ful supporters of their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions 
of England? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected 
by the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us? 
It is not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, 
and reputation has its being. The world at large is the 
arbiter of a nation's fame; with its thousand eyes it wit- 
nesses a nation's deeds, and from their collective testi- 
mony is national glory or national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but lit- 
tle importance whether England does us justice or not; 
it is, perhaps, of far more importance to herself. She is 
instilling anger and resentment into the bosom of a youth- 
ful nation, to grow with its growth and strengthen with 
its strength. If in America, as some of her writers are 
laboring to convince her, she is hereafter to find an in- 
vidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very 
writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated hostil- 
ity. Every one knows the all-pervading influence of 
literature at the present day, and how much the opinions 
and passions of mankind are under its control. The 
mere contests of the sword are temporary; their wounds 
are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to 
forgive and forget them; but the slanders of the pen pierce 
to the heart; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits; 
they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it mor- 
bidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but 
seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities be- 
tween two nations; there exists, most commonly, a pre- 
vious jealousy and ill-will; a predisposition to take offence. 
Trace these to their cause, and how often will they be 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 63 

found to originate in the mischievous effusions of mer- 
cenary writers; who, secure in their closets, and for igno- 
minious bread, concoct and circulate the venom that is 
to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point; for it 
applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over 
no nation does the press hold a more absolute control 
than over the people of America; for the universal educa- 
tion of the poorest classes makes every individual a 
reader. There is nothing published in England on the 
subject of our country that does not circulate through 
every part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from 
English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an 
English statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, 
and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, 
then, as England does, the fountain-head whence the 
literature of the language flows, how completely is it in 
her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the 
medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a stream 
where the two nations might meet together, and drink 
in peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in 
turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may come 
when she may repent her folly. The present friendship 
of America may be of but little moment to her; but the 
future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt; 
over those of England there lower some shadows of uncer- 
tainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive; should 
these reverses overtake her, from which the proudest 
empires have not been exempt; she may look back with 
regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a 
nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus 
destroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the 
boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the 
people of the United States are inimical to the parent 
country. It is one of the errors which have been diligently 
propagated by designing writers. There is, doubtless, 
considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at 



64 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the illiberality of the EngUsh press; but, generally speak- 
ing, the prepossessions of the people are strongly in favor 
of England. Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in 
many parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. 
The bare name of Englishman was a passport to the con- 
fidence and hospitality of every family, and too often 
gave a transient currency to the worthless and the un- 
grateful. Throughout the country there was something 
of enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. We 
looked to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and 
veneration, as the land of our forefathers — the august re- 
pository of the monuments and antiquities of our race — 
the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of 
our paternal history. After our own country, there was 
none in whose glory we more delighted — none whose good 
opinion we were more anxious to possess — none towards 
which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm 
consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever 
there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring 
forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of our 
country to show that, in the midst of hostilities, they 
still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of 
kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be brok- 
en for ever? Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an 
illusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage; 
which might have interfered occasionally with our true 
interests, and prevented the growth of proper national 
pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie! and 
there are feelings dearer than interest — closer to the heart 
than pride — that will still make us cast back a look of 
regret, as we wander farther and farther from the pater- 
nal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent that 
w^ould repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the con- 
duct of England may be in this system of aspersion, 
recrimination on our part would be equally ill-judged. 
I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 05 

country, nor the keenest castigation of her slanderers — 
but I allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind; to retort 
sarcasm, and inspire prejudice; which seems to be spread- 
ing widely among our writers. Let us guard particu- 
larly against such a temper, for it would double the evil 
instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and 
inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm; but it is a 
paltry and an unprofitable contest. It is the alternative 
of a- morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than 
warmed into indignation. If England is willing to per- 
mit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animos- 
ities of politics, to deprave the integrity of her press, and 
poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her 
example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, 
and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking 
emigration; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. 
Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify, 
for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we are the 
rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to 
answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment — 
a mere spirit of retaliation; and even that is impotent. 
Our retorts are never republished in England; they fall 
short, therefore, of their aim; but they foster a querulous 
and peevish temper among our writers; they sour the 
sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and 
brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they 
circulate through our own country, and, as far as they 
have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This 
last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Gov- 
erned, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost 
care should be taken to preserve the purity of the public 
mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge; 
whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, 
willfully saps 'the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should 
be candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, 
portions of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and 
ghould be enabled to come to all questions of national 

5 



66 ' THE SKETCH-BOOK 

• 
concern with calm and unbiased judgments. From the 
pecuHar nature of our relations with England, we must 
have more frequent questions of a difficult and delicate 
character with her than with any other nation; questions 
that affect the most acute and excitable feelings; and as, 
in the adjusting of these, our national measures must 
ultimately be determined by popular sentiment, we can- 
not be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent 
passion or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from 
every portion of the earth, we should receive all with 
impartiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an ex- 
ample of one nation, at least, destitute of national antip- 
athies, and exercising not merely the overt acts of hospi- 
tality, but those more rare and noble courtesies which 
spring from liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices? They 
are the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in 
rude and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of 
each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries 
with distrust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have 
sprung into national existence in an enlightened and 
philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable 
world, and the various branches of the human family, 
have been indefatigably studied and made known to each 
other; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if we do 
not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the 
local superstitions of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry 
feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of 
what is really excellent and amiable in the English char- 
acter. We are a young people, necessarily an imitative 
one, and must take our examples and models, in a great 
degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no 
country more worthy of our study than England. The 
spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
manners of her people — their intellectual activity — 
their freedom of opinion — their habits of thinking on 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 67 

those subjects which concern the dearest interests and 
most sacred charities of private hfe, are all congenial to 
the American character; and, in fact, are all intrinsically 
excellent; for it is in the moral feeling of the people that 
the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid; and 
however the superstructure may be time-worn, or over- 
run by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, 
admirable in the materials, and stable in the structure of 
an edifice, that so long has towered unshaken amidst the 
tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding 
all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the 
illiberality of British authors, to speak of the English 
nation without prejudice, and with determined candor. 
While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with 
which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every 
thing English, merely because it is English, let them 
frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. 
We may thus place England before us as a perpetual vol- 
ume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions 
from ages of experience; and while we avoid the errors 
and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we 
may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, 
wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national 
character. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past! 

COWPER. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 
English character must not confine his observations to 
the metropolis. He must go forth into the country; he 
must sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit castles, 
villas, farm-houses, cottages; he must wander through 
parks and gardens; along hedges and green lanes; he 
must loiter about country churches; attend wakes and 
fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people 
in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth 
and fashion of the nation; they are the only fixed abodes 
of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is in- 
habited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In Eng- 
land, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering- 
place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where 
they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 
gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind 
of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial 
habits of rural life. The various orders of society are 
therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, 
and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of 
the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural 
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties 
pf nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employ- 



RURAL LIFE LV ENGLAND 69 

ments of the country. This passion seems inherent in 
them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought 
up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with 
facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occu- 
pation. The merchant has His snug retreat in the vicinity 
of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride 
and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the 
maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his 
business, and the success of a commercial enterprise. 
Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed 
to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive 
to have something that shall remind them of the green 
aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters 
of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently 
a bank of flowers; every spot capable of vegetation has its 
grass-plot and flower-bed; and every square its mimic 
park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with 
refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to 
form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He 
is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thou- 
sand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and 
feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too 
commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever 
he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere 
else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind 
is wandering to another; and while paying a friendly visit, 
he is calculating how he shall economize time so as to 
pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An immense 
metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men sel- 
fish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient 
meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. 
They present but the cold superficies of character — its 
rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into 
a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to 
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold 
formalities and negative civilities of town; throws off his 



70 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. 
He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and 
elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His 
country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for 
studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exer- 
cise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sport- 
ing implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no 
constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the 
true spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoy- 
ment, and leaves every one to partake according to his 
inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and 
in what is called landscape-gardening, is unrivalled. 
They have studied nature intently, and discover an ex- 
quisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious 
combinations. Those charms, which in other countries 
she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round 
the haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught 
her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, 
about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence 
of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like 
sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of 
gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage; the solemn 
pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer troop- 
ing in silent herds across them; the hare, bounding away 
to the covert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon 
the wing: the brook, taught to wind in natural meander- 
ings or expand into a glassy lake; the sequestered pool, 
reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleep- 
ing on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about 
its limpid waters; while some rustic temple or sylvan 
statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air of 
classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery; 
but what most delights me, is the creative talent with 
which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of 
middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unprom- 



RURAL LIFF;^ in ENGLAND 71 

ising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Eng- 
Ushman of taste, becomes a Uttle paradise. With a 
nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capa- 
bilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. 
The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand; and 
yet the operations of art which produce the effect are 
scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of 
some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice dis- 
tribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful 
foliage; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; 
the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver 
gleam of water: all these are managed with a delicate 
tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic 
touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite 
picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in 
the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in 
rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The 
very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip 
of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim 
hedge, the grassplot before the door, the little flower-bed 
bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against 
the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the 
pot of flowers in the window, the holly, providently plan- 
ted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, 
and to throw in a semblance of green sum.mer to cheer 
the fireside: all these bespeak the influence of taste, flow- 
ing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest 
levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, 
delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an 
English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of 
the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the 
national character. I do not know a finer race of men 
than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and 
effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most 
countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, 
a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which 



72 THE SKETQH-BOOK 

I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the 
open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recrea- 
tions of the country. These hardy exercises produce also 
a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and 
simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipa- 
tions of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never 
entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different or- 
ders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more 
disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. 
The distinctions between them do not appear to be so 
marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in 
which property has been distributed into small estates 
and farms has established a regular gradation from the 
nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed 
proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the labor- 
ing peasantry; and while it has thus banded the ex- 
tremes of society together, has infused into each inter- 
mediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be 
confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it 
was formerly; the larger estates having, in late years of 
distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the 
country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small 
farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks 
in the general system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. 
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur 
and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own 
mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of 
external influences. Such a man may be simple and 
rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, 
therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with 
the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually 
mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside 
his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinc- 
tions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoy- 
ments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of 
the country bring men more and more together; and the 
sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. 



RURAL LIFE LY ENGLAND 7;^ 

1 believe this is one great reason why the nobiht}' and 
gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in 
Enghmd than they are in any other country; and why 
the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and 
extremities, without repining more generally at the un- 
equal distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through 
British literature; the frequent use of illustrations from 
rural life; those incomparable descriptions of nature that 
abound in the British poets, that have continued down 
from the ''Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have 
brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of 
the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other coun- 
tries appear as if they had paid nature an occasional 
visit, and become acquainted with her general charms; 
but the British poets have lived and revelled with her — 
they have w^ooed her in her most secret haunts — they have 
watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not trem- 
ble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — 
a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fra- 
grance could not -exhale from the humble violet, nor a 
daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has 
been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, 
and wrought up into some beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural 
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country. 
A great part of the island is rather level, and would be 
monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture: but 
it IS studded and gemmed, as it were, wath castles and 
palaces, and embroidered with, parks and gardens. It 
does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but 
rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cot- 
tage is a picture: and as the roads are continually winding, 
and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is 
delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes 
of captivating loveliness. 



74 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

The great charm, however, of Enghsh scenery is the 
moral feehng that seems to pervade it. It is associated 
in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well- 
established principles, of hoary usage and reverend cus- 
tom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of 
regular and peaceful existence. The old church of remote 
architecture, with its low massive portal; its gothic tower; 
its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in scru- 
pulous preservation; its stately monuments of warriors 
and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present 
lords of the soil; its tombstones, recording successive 
generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still 
plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar^the 
parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, 
but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and 
occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the 
churchyard, across pleasant fields, and along shady 
hedge-rows, according to an immemorial right of way — 
the neighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its 
public green sheltered by trees, under which the fore- 
fathers of the present race have sported — the antique 
family mansion, standing apart in some little rural do- 
main, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur- 
rounding scene: all these common features of English 
landscape evince a calm and settled security, an hered- 
itary transmission of homebred virtues and local attach- 
ments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral 
character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the 
bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to 
behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy 
faces and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along 
the green lanes to church; but it is still more pleasing to 
see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage 
doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts 
and embellishments which their own hands have spread 
around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 75 

affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the 
parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; 
and I cannot close these desultory remarks better, than 
by quoting the words of a modern Enghsh poet, who has 
depicted it with remarkable felicity: 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crown 'd with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless. 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw roof'd shed; 
This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dweUing-place; 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 
Can center in a little quiet nest 
All that desire would fly for through the earth; 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoy 'd; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving heaven; 
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.i 

1 From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the 
Reverend Rann Kennedy, A. M. 



THE BROKEN HEART 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, Hke the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

It is a common practice with those who have oiithved 
the susceptibiUty of early feeUng, or have been brought 
up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated hfe, to laugh at 
all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion 
as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations 
on human nature have induced me to think otherwise. 
They have convinced me, that however the surface of the 
character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the 
world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of soci- 
ety, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of 
the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become 
impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. 
Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to 
the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it?— I 
believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of 
disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a 
malady often fatal to my own sex; but I firmly believe 
that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early 
grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His 
nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the 
world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, 
or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for 
fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and 



THE BROKEN HEART • 77 

dominion over his fellow-mfen. But a woman's whole 
Hfe is a history of the affections. The heart is her world : 
it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her 
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her 
S3'mpathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul 
in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is 
hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion 
some bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tender- 
ness — it blasts some prospects of felicity; but his is an 
active being — he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl 
of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of 
pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of 
painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and 
taking as it were the wings of the morning, can ''fly to 
the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers 
of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot 
is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her 
heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and 
sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft 
cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away 
into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted 
their loveliness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its 
side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on 
its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the 
world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a 
delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when 
fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when 
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and 
there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. 
With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great 
charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the 
cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the 
pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents 



78 ' THE SKETCH-BOOK 

through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet re- 
freshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — 
''dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame 
sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her, 
after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over 
her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but 
lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, 
should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and 
the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some 
casual indisposition, that laid her low; — but no one knows 
of the mental malady which previously sapped her 
strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with 
the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly 
withering, when it should b^e most fresh and luxuriant. 
We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding 
leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even 
in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the 
beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to Recollect the blast or 
thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to 
waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from 
the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; 
and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their 
death through the various declensions of consumption, 
cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the 
first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of 
the kind was lately told to me; the circumstances are 
well known in the country where they happened, and I 
shall but give them in the manner in which they were 
related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young 

E , the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon 

forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, 
condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His 
fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He 
was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave— 



THE BROKEN HEART 79 

so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. 
His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. 
The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge 
of treason against his country — the eloquent vindication 
of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the 
hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply 
into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented 
the stern policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be 
impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer for- 
tunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and inter- 
esting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. 
She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's 
first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed 
itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace 
and danger darkened around his name, she loved him 
the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his 
fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what 
must have been the agony of her, whose whole soul was 
occupied by his image! Let those tell who have had the 
portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and 
the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its 
threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, 
whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so 
dishonored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on 
that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those 
tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear 
the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those 
blessed tears,' sent like the dews of heaven, to revive the 
heart in the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had 
incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate 
attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. 
But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have 
reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she 
would have experienced no want of consolation, for the 
Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The 



80 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by 
famiUes of wealth and distinction. She was led into 
society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and 
amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the 
tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There 
are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the 
soul— which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — 
and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. 
She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, 
but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude; 
walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of 
the world around her. She carried with her an inward 
woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, 
and '^heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never 
so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a 
masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone 
wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it 
in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, 
lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it 
dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan 
and wobegone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor 
heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After 
strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 
with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on 
the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some 
time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to 
the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a 
sickly heart, to warble a httle plaintive air. She had an 
exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so 
touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, 
that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and 
melted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but ex- 
cite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. 
It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid 
his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the 
dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She 



THE BROKEN HEART 81 

declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably 
engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, 
however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her ten- 
derness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her convic- 
tion of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and 
dependent situation, for she was existing on the kind- 
ness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in 
gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, 
that her heart was unalterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. 
She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an 
effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the 
silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into 
her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless 
decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of 
a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 
( 3mposed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing: 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 
Every note which he loved awaking — 

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him! 

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

^ When they promise a glorious morrow; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow! 

6 



Cvs5 ^ 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 

"If that severe doom of Synesius be true — 'It is a greater offence 
to steal dead men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of 
most writers?" 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the 
press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on 
which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of bar- 
renness, should teem with voluminous productions. As 
a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his 
objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually 
finding out some very simple cause for some great mat- 
ter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrina- 
tions about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a 
scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the 
book-making craft, and at once put an end to my aston- 
ishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great 
saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with 
which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm 
weather; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, 
sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian 
mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal suc- 
cess, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty 
ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, 
my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end 
of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now 
and then it would open, and some strange-favored being, 
generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide 
through the rooms, without noticing any of the surround- 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 83 

ing objects. There was an air of mystery about this 
that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to 
attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the un- 
known regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, 
with that facility with which the portals of enchanted 
castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I found 
myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great 
cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just 
under the cornice, were arranged a great number of black- 
looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room 
were placed long tables, with stands for reading and 
writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages, 
poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among 
mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their 
contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mys- 
terious apartment, excepting that you might hear the 
racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally, the 
deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position 
to turn over the page of an old folio; doubtless arising 
from that hoUowness and flatulency incident to learned 
research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write some- 
thing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon 
a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound si- 
lence, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded 
with ponderous tomes, upon which the other would fall 
tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had no longer 
a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply 
engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene re- 
minded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut 
up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, 
which opened only once a year; where he made the spirits 
of "the place bring him books of all kinds of dark knowl- 
edge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic 
portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued 
forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar 
above the heads of the multitude, and to control the 
powers of nature. 



8-1 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to 
one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, 
and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before 
me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I 
found that these mysterious personages, whom I had 
mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and in the 
very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the 
reading-room of the great British Library — an immense 
collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of 
which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom 
read: one of the sequestered pools of obsolete literature, 
to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets full 
of classic lore, or ''pure English, undefiled," wh^erewith to 
swell their scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 
corner, and watched the process of this book manufac- 
tory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who 
sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed 
in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some 
work of profound erudition, that would be purchased by 
every man who wished to be thought learned, placed 
upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon 
his table; but never read. I observed him, now and then, 
draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and 
gnaw; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was en- 
deavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach 
produced by much pondering over dry works, I leave to 
harder students than myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright- 
colored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of 
countenance, who had all the appearance of an author 
on good terms with his bookseller. After considering 
him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up 
of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the 
trade. I was curious Jto see how he manufactured his 
wares. He made more stir and show of business than 
any of the others; dipping into various books, fluttering 
over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 85 

a morsel out of another, 'Mine upon line, precept upon 
precept, here a little and there a little." The contents 
of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the 
witches' caldron in '^ Macbeth." It was here a finger and 
there a thumb, toe of frog and blind-worm's sting, with 
his own gossip poured in like ''baboon's blood," to make 
the medley "slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition 
be implanted in authors for wise purposes; may it not be 
the way in which Providence has taken care that the 
seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from 
age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works 
in which they were first produced? We see that nature 
has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the convey- 
ance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain 
birds; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little 
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunder- 
ers of the orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's 
carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like 
manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and 
obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of pred- 
atory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear 
fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of 
their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, 
and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a 
ponderous history revives in the shape of a romance — an 
old legend changes into a modern play — and a sober 
philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole 
series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the 
clearing of our American woodlands; where we burn 
down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks 
start up in their place; and we never see the prostrate 
trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a 
whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion 
into which ancient writers descend; they do but submit 
to the great law of nature, which declares that all sub- 
lunary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, 



86 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never 
perish. Generation after generation, both in animal 
and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is 
transmitted to . posterity, and the species continue to 
flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and 
having produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age 
they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the 
authors who preceded them — and from whom they had 
stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had 
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these 
works; or to the profound quiet of the room; or to the 
lassitude arising from much wandering; or to an unlucky 
habit of napping at improper times and places, with 
which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into 
a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, 
and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's 
eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I 
dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the 
portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was 
increased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in 
place of the sage magi, I beheld" a ragged, threadbare 
throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repos- 
itory of cast-off clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever 
they seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities 
common to dreams, methought it turned into a garment 
of foreign or antique fashion, with which they proceeded 
to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no one 
pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, but 
took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from 
a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some 
of his original rags would peep out from among his 
borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through 
an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the volu- 
minous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 87 

purloined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look 
exceedingly wise; but the smirking commonplace of his 
countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. 
One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a 
very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of sev- 
eral old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an 
illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, 
culled from ''The Paradise of Daintie Devices," and hav- 
ing put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, 
strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A 
third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered 
himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure 
tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing 
front; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I 
perceived that he had patched his small-clothes with 
scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, 
who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled 
among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. 
Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the 
old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, 
and to catch their air and spirit; but I grieve to say, that 
too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe 
in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not 
omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, 
and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the 
pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined 
to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes 
of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths 
and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging 
his head on one side, went about with a fantastical lack- 
a-daisical air, ''babbling about green fields." But the 
personage that most struck my attention was a pragmati- 
cal old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably 
large and square, but bald head. He eatered the room 
wheezing and puflftng, elbowed his way through the 
throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having 



88 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon 
his head, and swept majestically away in a formidable 
frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry sud- 
denly resounded from every side, of ''Thieves! thieves!" 
I looked, and lo! the portraits about the wall became an- 
imated! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a 
shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an 
instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended 
with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. 
The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles 
all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in 
vain to escape with their plunder. On one side might be 
seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor; 
on another, there was sad devastation carried into the 
ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and 
Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like Castor 
and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders 
than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As 
to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some 
time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches 
and colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a conten- 
tion of claimants about him, as about the dead body of 
Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I 
had been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, 
fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. 
Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old 
gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling 
away in sore affright with half a score of authors in full 
cry after him! They were close upon his haunches: in a 
twinkling off went his wig; at every turn some strip of 
raiment was peeled away; until in a few moments, from 
his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, 
''chopped bald shot," and made his exit with only a few 
tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of 
this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit 
o£ laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 89 

and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed 
its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into 
their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity 
along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake 
in my corner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms 
gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream 
had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never 
before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent 
to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian -now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not 
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was 
a kind of literary ''preserve," subject to game-laws, and 
that no one must presume to hunt there without special 
license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of 
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi- 
tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors 
let loose upon me. 



A ROYAL POET 

Though your body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear, 

Fletcher. 

On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I 
made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full 
of storied and poetical associations. The very external 
aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high 
thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, 
like a mural crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, 
waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, 
with a lordly air, upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous 
vernal kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a 
man's temperament, filling his mind with music, and 
disposing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In 
wandering through the magnificent saloons and long 
echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indifference 
by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, 
but lingered in the chamber, where hang the likenesses 
of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles the 
Second; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amor- 
ous, half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, 
I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus 
enabled me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In 
traversing also the 'Marge green courts," with sunshine 
beaming on the gray walls, and glancing along the velvet 



A ROYAL POET 91 

turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of the ten- 
der, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of 
his loiterings about them in his stripling days, when 
enamored of the Lady Geraldine — 

"With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such ashmen draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the 
ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First of 
Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and 
historians, was for many years of his youth detained a 
prisoner of state. It is a large gray towei:, that has stood 
the brunt of ages, and is still in good preservation. It 
stands on a mound, which elevates it above the other 
parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to 
the interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall, furnished 
with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a 
coat of armor hanging against the wall, which had once 
belonged to James. Hence I was conducted up a stair- 
case to a suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung 
with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, and the 
scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, which has 
woven into the web of his story the magical hues of 
poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate 
prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven 
he was sent from home by his father, Robert III., and 
destined for the French court, to be reared under the eye 
of the French monarch, secure from the treachery and 
danger that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. It 
was his mishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the 
hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner by 
Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between 
the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of 
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy 
father. ''The news," we are told, ''was brought to him 
while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, 



92- THE SKETCH-BOOK 

that he was almost ready to give up the ghost into the 
hands of the servant that attended him. But being 
carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, 
and in three days died of hunger and grief at Rothesay." ^ 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years; 
but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated 
with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to 
instruct him in all the branches of useful knowledge 
cultivated at that period, and to give him those mental 
and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a 
prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment was 
an advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more 
exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe 
that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant 
tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. 
The picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish 
historians, is highly captivating, and seems rather the 
description of a hero of romance, than of a character in 
real history. He was well learnt, we are told, 'Ho fight 
with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing 
and dance; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in 
playing both of lute and harp, and sundry other instru- 
ments of music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, 
and poetry." 2 

With this combination of manly and delicate accom- 
plishments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant 
life, and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous 
existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of 
bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of his years 
in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of 
James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, 
and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations 
of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow inactive, 
under the loss of personal liberty; others grow morbid 
and irritable; but it is the nature of the poet to become 
tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. 

1 Buchanan. 

2 Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 



A ROYAL POET 93 

He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, 
Uke the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. i 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, 
that it is irrepressible, unconfinabie; that when the real 
world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with 
a necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and 
forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, 
and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the 
world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his 
dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid 
scenes of his ''Jerusalem;" and we may consider the 
"King's Quair," composed by James, during his cap- 
tivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings- 
forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the 
prison house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane 
Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess 
of the blood royal of England, of whom he became enam- 
ored in the course of his captivity. What gives it a 
peculiar value, is that it may be considered a transcript 
of the royal bard's true feelings, and the story of his real 
loves and fortunes. It is not often that sovereigns write 
poetry, or that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the 
pride of a common man, to find a monarch thus suing, as 
it were, for admission into his closet, and seeking to win 
his favor by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof 
of the honest equality of intellectual competition, which 
strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the 
candidate down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges 
him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. 
It is curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's 
1 Roger L 'Estrange. 



94 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

heart, and to find the simple affections of human nature 
throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to 
be a poet before he was a king: he was schooled in adver- 
sity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. 
Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, 
or to meditate their minds into poetry; and had James 
been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a 
court, we should never, in all probability, have had such 
a poem as the ''Quair." 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the 
poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning 
his situation, or which are connected with the apartment 
in the tower. They have thus a personal and local 
charm, and are given with such circumstantial truth, 
as to make the reader present with the captive in his 
prison, and the companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of 
spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the idea of 
writing the poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear 
moonlight night; the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire 
in the high vault of heaven: and ''Cynthia rinsing her 
golden locks in Aquarius." He lay in bed wakeful and 
restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. 
The book he chose was Boetius' ''Consolations of Phil- 
osophy," a work popular among the writers of that day, 
and which had been translated by his great prototype 
Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, 
it is evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in 
prison: and indeed it is an admirable text-book for medi- 
tation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and 
enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, be- 
queathing to its successors in calamity the maxims of 
sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple 
reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up against the 
various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the unfortunate 
may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good King 
James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in 



A ROYAL POET 95 

his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the 
fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and 
the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. 
Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins; but its 
sound, chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems to 
him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the 
spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply with this 
intimation: he therefore takes pen in hand, makes with it 
a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and sallies 
forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is something 
extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as fur- 
nishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple 
manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are 
sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested 
to the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fate; thus doomed to lonely and 
inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure 
of the world, in which the meanest animal indulges un- 
restrained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very 
complaints; they are the lamentations of an amiable and 
social spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind 
and generous propensities; there is nothing in them harsh 
nor exaggerated; they flow with a natural and touching 
pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching by their 
simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elaborate 
and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet with in 
poetry; — the effusions of morbid minds sickening under 
miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitter- 
ness upon an unoffending world. James speaks of his 
privations with acute sensibility, but having mentioned 
them passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood 
over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks 
forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how 
great must be the suffering that extorts the murmur. We 
sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and accom- 
plished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all 
the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights of 



96 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

life; as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of 
nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief, 
but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual blindness. 
Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, 
we might almost have suspected that these lowerings of 
gloomy refiection were meant as preparative to the bright- 
est scene of his story; and to contrast with that refulgence 
of light and loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment 
of bird and song, and foliage and flower, and all the revel 
of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. 
It is this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic 
of romance about the old Castle Keep. He had arisen, 
he says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape from 
the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. '^ Bewailing 
in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and 
remedy, ''fortired of thought and wobegone," he had 
wandered to the window, to indulge the captive's miser- 
able solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from which 
he is excluded. The window looked forth upon a small 
garden which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, 
sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and 
protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn 
hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
That lyf i was none, walkyng there forbye 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be sene 
The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 

Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

1 Lyf, Person. 



A ROYAL POET 97 

And on the small grene twistisi set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Right of their song 

It was the month of May, when every thing was in 
bloom; and he interprets the song of the nightingale into 
the language of his enamored feeling: 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun 

And sing with us, away, winter, away, 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the 
birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and 
undefinable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this 
delicious season. He wonders what this love may be, of 
which he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed 
forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all 
nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a 
felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to 
the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut off 
from its enjoyments? 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be. 
That love is of such noble myght and kynde? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find: 
May he oure hertes setten2 and unbynd: 

Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye? 

For giff he be of so grete excellence, 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt^ to him, or done ofTense, 

That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large? 

1 Tivistis, small boughs or twigs. 2 Setten, incline. 

3 Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 
Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 

7 



98 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, 
he beholds ''the fairest and the freshest young floure" 
that ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walk- 
ing in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that ''fresh May 
morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in 
the moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at 
once captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and be- 
comes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign 
of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance 
to the early part of Chaucer's "Knight's Tale"; where 
Palamon and.Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they 
see walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the 
similarity of the actual fact to the incident which he had 
read in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it 
in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given 
in the picturesque and minute manner of his master; and 
being doubtless taken from the life, is a perfect portrait 
of a beauty of that day. He dwells, with the fondness of 
a lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net of 
pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that con- 
fined her golden hair, even to the "goodly chaine of small 
orfeverye" ^ about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby 
in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of 
fire burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white 
tissue was looped up to enable her to walk with more 
freedom. She was accompanied by two female attend- 
ants, and about her sported a little hound decorated with 
bells; probably the small Italian hound of exquisite sym- 
metry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the 
fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes his 
description by a burst of general eulogium: 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature; 

God better knows then my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse,2 estate,3 and cunning * sure, 

1 Wrought gold. 2 Largesse, bounty. 

3 Estate, dignity. * Cunning, discretion. 



A ROYAL POET 99 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an 
end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs 
the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm 
over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneU- 
ness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this pass- 
ing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long and 
weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when even- 
ing approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses 
it, had ''bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he still 
lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold 
stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, 
until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the 
twilight hour, he lapses, ''half sleeping, half swoon," into 
a vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, and 
in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of his 
passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony 
pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflec- 
tions, questions his spirit, whither it has been wandering; 
whether, indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming 
fancy has been conjured up by preceding circumstances; 
or whether it is a vision, intended to comfort and assure 
him in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some 
token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, 
given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle dove, of 
the purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, and 
alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red 
gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of 
gold, the following sentence: 

Awake! awake! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 

Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread; 



100 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

reads it with rapture; and this, he says, was the first token 
of his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a mere 
poetic fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send 
him a token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to 
be determined according to the faith or fancy of the 
reader. He concludes his poem, by intimating that the 
promise conveyed in the vision and by the flower is ful- 
filled, by his being restored to liberty, and made happy 
in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love 
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is abso- 
lute fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it 
is fruitless to conjecture; let us not, however, reject every 
romantic incident as incompatible with real life; but let us 
sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely 
those parts of the poem immediately connected with the 
tower, and have passed over a large part, written in the 
allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The 
language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the 
beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be per- 
ceived at the present day; but it is impossible not to be 
charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful art- 
lessness and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The 
descriptions of nature too, with which it is embellished, 
are given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, 
worthy of the most cultivated periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of 
coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and 
exquisite delicacy which pervade it; banishing every gross 
thought or immodest expression, and presenting female 
loveliness, clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost 
supernatural purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and 
Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their 
writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges 
them as his masters; and, in some parts of his poem, we- 
find traces of similarity to their productions, more es- 
pecially to those of Chaucer. There are always, however, 



A ROYAL POET 101 

general features of resemblance in the works of contem- 
porary authors, which are not so much borrowed from 
each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll 
their sweets in the wide world; they incorporate with 
their own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current 
in society; and thus each generation has some features in 
common, characteristic of the age in which it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our 
literary history, and establishes the claims of his country 
to a participation in its primitive honors. Whilst a small 
cluster of English writers are constantly cited as the 
fathers of our verse, the name of their great Scottish 
compeer is apt to be passed over in silence; but he is 
evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constella- 
tion of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine in 
the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morn- 
ing stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British 
poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish 
history (though the manner in which it has of late been 
woven with captivating fiction has made it a universal 
study) , may be curious to learn something of the subse- 
quent history of James, and the fortunes of his love. His 
passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his 
captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined 
by the court that a connection with the blood royal of 
England would attach him to its own interests. He was 
ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having previ- 
ously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to 
Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal 
chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and 
irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen them- 
selves in their possessions, and place themselves above the 
power of the laws. James sought to found the basis of 
his power in the affections of his people. He attached the 
lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the 
temperate and equable administration of justice, the en- 



102 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

couragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of 
every thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, and 
innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. 
He mingled occasionally among the common people in 
disguise; visited their firesides; entered into their cares, 
their pursuits, and their amusements; informed himself 
of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be pat- 
ronized and improved; and was thus an all-pervading 
spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the meanest 
of his subjects. Having in this generous manner made 
himself strong in the hearts of the common people, he 
turned himself to curb the power of the factwus nobility; 
to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they 
had usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant 
offences; and to bring the whole into proper obedience 
to the crown. For some time they bore this with outward 
submission, but with secret impatience and brooding re- 
sentment. A conspiracy was at length formed against 
his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert 
Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself for the 
perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson 
Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, 
and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke 
into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent near 
Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered 
him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rush- 
ing to throw her tender body between him and the sword, 
was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield 
him from the assassin; and it was not until she had been 
forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was ac- 
complished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 
times, and of the golden little poem which had its birth- 
place in this Tower, that made me visit the old pile with 
more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging 
up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure 
in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and ro- 
mantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced 



A ROYAL POET 103 

the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem; 
I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade 
myself it was the very one where he had been visited by 
his vision; I looked out upon the spot where he had first 
seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous 
month; the birds were again vying with each other in 
strains of liquid melody; every thing was bursting into 
vegetation, and holding forth the tender promise of the 
year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner 
memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly 
over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have with- 
held his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone 
by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of the Tower. 
It occupies what was once the moat of the Keep; and 
though some parts have been separated by dividing walls, 
yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in 
the days of James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, 
and retired. There is a charm about a spot that has been 
printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and conse- 
crated by the inspirations of the poet, which is height- 
ened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, 
indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every place in which 
it moves; to breathe around nature an odor more ex- 
quisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it 
a tint more magical than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a 
warrior and a legislator; but I have delighted to view him 
merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor 
of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow 
the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of com- 
mon life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and 
hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since become so 
prolific of the most wholesome and highly-flavored fruit. 
He carried with him into the sterner regions of the north 
all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did 
every thing in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, 
the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine the 
character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the 



104 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many 
poems, which, unfortunately for the fulness of his fame, 
are now lost to the world; one, which is still preserved, 
called ''Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how diligently 
he had made himself acquainted with the rustic sports and 
pastimes, which constitute such a source of kind and social 
feeling among the Scottish peasantry; and with what sim- 
ple and happy humor he could enter into their enjoy- 
ments. He contributed greatly to improve the national 
music; and traces of his tender sentiment, and elegant 
taste, are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped 
among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. 
He has thus connected his image with whatever is most 
gracious and endearing in the national character; he has 
embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name to 
after ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The 
recollection of these things was kindling at my heart as 
I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have 
visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim 
would visit the shrine at Loretto; but I have never felt 
more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old 
Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over 
the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet 
of Scotland. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

A gentleman! 
What, o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
Or Usts of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by? 

Beggar's Bush. 

There are few places more favorable to the study of 
character than an English country church. I was once 
passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in 
the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly 
struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of 
quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to 
English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country 
filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold 
and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble gen- 
erations. The interior walls were incrusted with monu- 
ments of every age and style. The light streamed through 
windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblaz- 
oned in stained glass. In various parts of the church 
were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous 
workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On 
every side the eye was struck with some instance of as- 
piring mortality; some haughty memorial which human 
pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of 
the most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring 
people of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and 
cushioned, furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and 
decorated with their arms upon the pew doors; of the 
villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a 



106 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

small gallery beside the organ; and of the poor of the 
parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar, 
who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a 
privileged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and 
had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country; until age 
and good living had disabled him from doing any thing 
more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make 
one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossi- 
ble to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and 
place: so, having, like many other feeble Christians, com- 
promised with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own 
delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied 
myself by making observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice 
the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, 
that there was the least pretension where there was the 
most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly 
struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high 
rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing 
could be more simple and unassuming than their appear- 
ance. They generally came to church in the plainest 
equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would 
stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peas- 
antry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the 
humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and 
beautifully fair, with an expression of high refinement, 
but, at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an engag- 
ing affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly 
formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; with 
strict neatness and propriety, but without any mannerism 
or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and 
natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which 
bespeak freeborn souls that have never been checked in 
their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a health- 
ful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads con- 
tact and communion with others, however humble. It 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 1()7 

is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and 
shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the man- 
ner in which they would converse with the peasantry 
about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the 
gentlemen of this country so much delight. In these 
conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one 
part, nor servility on the other; and you were only re- 
minded of the difference of rank by the habitual respect 
of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, 
who had amassed a vast fortune; and, having purchased 
the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neigh- 
borhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and 
dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family al- 
ways came to church en 'prince. They were rolled majes- 
tically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The 
crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the 
harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat 
coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a 
flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated 
on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two 
footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and 
gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and 
sunk on its long springs with peculiar stateliness of mo- 
tion. The very horses champed their bits, arched their 
necks," and glanced their eyes more proudly than common 
horses; either because they had caught a little of the 
family feeling,- or were reined up more tightly than ordi- 
nary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard. 
There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an 
angle of the wall; — a great smacking of the whip, strain- 
ing and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and 
flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment 
of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses 
were urged and checked until they were fretted into a 
foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dash- 



108 'THE SKETCH-BOOK 

ing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers 
sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the 
right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching 
the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness 
that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them 
on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to 
alight, pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for 
the descent on earth of this august family. The old citi- 
zen first emerged his round red face from out the door, 
looking about him with the pompous air of a man ac- 
customed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market 
with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, 
followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little 
pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, 
honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her; 
and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 
house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was fine 
about her: it was nothing but driving about, and visiting 
and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it was 
one long Lord Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome; but had a supercilious air, that 
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be criti- 
cal. They were ultra-fashionable in dress; and, though 
no one could deny the richness of their decorations, yet 
their appropriateness might be questioned amidst the 
simplicity of a country church. They descended loftily 
from the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry 
with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
They cast an exclusive glance around, that passed coldly 
over the burly faces' of the peasantry, until they met the 
eyes of the nobleman's family, when their countenances 
immediately brightened into smiles, and they made the 
most profound and elegant courtesies, which were re- 
turned in a manner that showed they were but slight ac- 
quaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 109 

who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of question- 
able pretensions to style. They kept entirely by them- 
selves, eyeing every one askance that came near them, as 
if measuring his claims to respectability; yet they were 
without conversation, except the exchange of an occa- 
sional cant phrase. They even moved artificially; for 
their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, 
had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and 
freedom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them 
as men of fashion, but nature had denied them the name- 
less grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed 
for the common purposes of life, and had that air of 
supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true 
gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 
these two families, because I considered them specimens 
of what is often to be met with in this country — the un- 
pretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no re- 
spect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true 
nobility of soul; but I have remarked in all countries where 
artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes 
are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those 
who are well assured of their own standing are least apt 
to trespass on that of others: whereas nothing is so of- 
fensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to 
elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a re- 
spect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable 
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were 
in a perpetual flutter and whisper; they betrayed a con- 
tinual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of 
being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to 



no THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the service. He took the whole burden of family devo- 
tion upon himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the 
responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over 
the church. It was evident that he was one of those 
thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of 
devotion and loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow 
or other, of the government party, and religion "a very 
excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced 
and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more 
by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, 
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being re- 
ligious; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow pub- 
licly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every 
mouthful, and pronouncing it "excellent food for the 
poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness 
the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and 
their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home 
across the fields, chatting with the country people as they 
went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. 
Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There 
was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, 
and the glittering of harness. The horses started off al- 
most at a bound; the villagers again hurried to right and 
left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust; and the aspiring 
family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters, 
must have noticed the passive quiet of an Enghsh land- 
scape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly 
recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's 
hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of 
the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. 
The very farm dogs bark less frequently, being less dis- 
turbed by passing travellers. At such times I have 
almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the 
sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into 
blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a 
day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of 
nature, has its moral influence; every restless passion is 
charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul 
gently springing up within us. For my part, there are 
feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beau- 
tiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; 
and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on 
Sunday than on any other day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country, I used fre- 
quently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy 
^.isles; its mouldering monuments; its dark oaken panelling, 



112 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to 
fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation; but being in a 
wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion 
penetrated even into the sanctuary; and I felt myself con- 
tinually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and 
pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in 
the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel 
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a 
poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of 
years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something 
better than abject poverty. The fingerings of decent 
pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though 
humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some 
trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not 
take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the 
steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, 
all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but 
the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and 
bending her aged form in prayer; habitually conning her 
prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes 
would not permit her to read, but which she evidently 
knew by heart; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice 
of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the re- 
sponses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chant- 
ing of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this 
was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted 
me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream 
made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through 
a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was 
surrounded by yew-trees which seemed almost coeval 
with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from 
among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling 
about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, 
watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They 
had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners 
of the church-yard; where, from the number of nameless 
graves around, it would appear that the indigent and 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 113 

friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that 
the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. 
While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly 
rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the 
toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. 
They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had 
nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without 
pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. 
The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected 
woe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered 
after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the de- 
ceased — the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on 
the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble 
friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of 
the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some chil- 
dren of the village were running hand in hand, now shout- 
ing with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with 
childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, 
with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. 
The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The 
deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penni- 
less. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but 
coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a 
few steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely 
be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral 
service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into 
such a frigid mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 
deceased — '^George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. 
Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I 
could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a con- 
vulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last 
relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart, 

8 



114 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the 
earth. There was that busthng stir which breaks so 
harshly on the feehngs of grief and affection; directions 
given in the cold tones of business: the striking of spades 
into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we 
love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle 
around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched 
reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about 
with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords 
to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands 
and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who 
attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise 
her from the earth, and to whisper something like con- 
solation — ''Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely 
to heart." She could only shake her head and wring her 
hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of 
the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some acci- 
dental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all 
the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm 
could come to him who was far beyond the reach of 
worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — 
my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a 
barbarous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this 
scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part 
of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral 
train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting 
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was 
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitu- 
tion, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the 
distresses of the rich! they have friends to soothe — 
pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate 
their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! Their 
growing minds soon close about the wound — their elastic 
spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and 
ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 115 

sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to 
soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom hfe at best 
is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth 
of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, 
mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years; 
these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impo- 
tency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the church-yard. On 
my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted 
as comforter: she was just returning from accompanying 
the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her 
some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had 
witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 
from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest 
cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assist- 
ance of a small garden, had supported themselves credit- 
ably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless 
life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff 
and pride of their age. — ''Oh, sir!" said the good woman, 
''he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind 
to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It 
did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out 
in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his 
old mother to church — for she was always fonder of lean- 
ing on George's arm, than on her good man's; and, poor 
soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there 
was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service 
of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. 
He had not been long in this employ when he was en- 
trapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His 
parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that 
they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main 
prop. The father, who was always infirm, grew heart- 
less and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, 
left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer sup- 



116 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

port herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a 
kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a 
certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. 
As no one applied for the cottage, in which she had passed 
so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, 
where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few 
wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty 
productions of her little garden, which the neighbors 
would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few 
days before the time at which these circumstances were 
told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her 
repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the 
garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and 
seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was 
dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly 
pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hard- 
ships. He saw her, and hastened towards her, but his 
steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before 
her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon 
him with a vacant and wandering eye — ''Oh, my dear, 
dear mother! don't you know your son? your poor boy, 
George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble 
lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign 
imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs 
homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a 
meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended: 
still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to 
comfort and cherish her old age! Nature, however, was 
exhausted in him; and if any thing had been wanting to 
finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cot- 
tage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself 
on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed 
many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had 
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and 
assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too 
weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks, 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 117 

His mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed 
unwilUng to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the 
pride of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it 
back to the feehngs of infancy. Who that has languished, 
even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who 
that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness 
of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother 'Hhat 
looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and 
administered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an en- 
during tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that 
transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither 
to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor 
weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. 
She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she 
will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will 
glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity: — and, if 
misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from 
misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will 
still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace; and if 
all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world 
to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in 
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and 
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from 
his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. 
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he 
slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, 
and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over him; 
when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall 
asleep, with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he 
died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction 
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and adminis- 
ter pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I 
found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of 
the villagers had prompted them to do every thing that 
the case admitted: and as the poor know best how 



118 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to 
intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church; when, to 
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down 
the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourn- 
ing for her son; and nothing could be more touching than 
this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: 
a black ribbon or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one 
or two more such humble attempts to express by outward 
signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round 
upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the 
cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned mag- 
nificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor 
widow, bowed down by age and sorrow, at the altar of 
her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of a 
pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monu- 
ment of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of 
the congregation, and they were moved by it. They 
exerted themselves to render her situation more com- 
fortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, 
but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of 
a Sunday or two after, she was. missed from her usual seat 
at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard, 
with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed 
her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that 
world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never 
parted. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON i 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday 
in the country, and its tranquillizing effect upon the land- 
scape; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly 
apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, 
London? On. this sacred day, the gigantic monster is 
charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle 
of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. The 
fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished; and 
the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, 
pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the quiet streets. 
The few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forward 
with anxious countenances, move leisurely along; their 
brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and 
care; they have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday 
manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed 
in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church 
towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth 
issue from his mansion the family of the decent trades- 
man, the small children in the advance; then the citizen 
and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daugh- 
ters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the 
folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks 
after them from the window, admiring the finery of the 
family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her 
young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the 
city, perad venture an alderman or a sheriff; and now the 

1 Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 



120 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

patter of many feet announces a procession of charity 
scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a 
prayer-book under his arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the 
carriage has ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more; 
the flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in 
by-lanes and corners of the crowded city, where the vigi- 
lant beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round 
the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time every thing 
is hushed; but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of 
the organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes 
and courts; and the sweet chanting of the choir making 
them resound with melody and praise. Never have I 
been more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church 
music, than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like 
a river of joy, through the inmost recesses of this great 
metropolis, elevating it, as it w^ere, from all the sordid 
pollutions of the week; and bearing the poor world-worn 
soul on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again 
alive with the congregations returning to their hames, but 
soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sun- 
day dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some 
importance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment 
at the board. Members of the family can now gather 
together, who are separated by the laborious occupations 
of the week. A school-boy may be permitted on that day 
to come to the paternal home ; an old friend of the family 
takes his accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over 
his well-known stories, and rejoices young and old with 
his well-known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to 
breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks 
and rural environs. Satirists may say what they please 
about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sun- 
day, but to me there is something delightful in beholding 
the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled 
thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 121 

the green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored 
to the mother's breast; and they who first spread out 
these noble parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds which 
surround this huge metropolis, have done at least as much 
for its health and morality, as if they had expended the 
amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 

A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH 

"A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good 
fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great- 
great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when his 
great-grandfather was a child, that 'it was a good wind that blew 
a man to the wine.' " 

Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor 
the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their 
pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be 
known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, 
is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel; 
another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking 
rays athwart his effigy; while the whole blaze of adora- 
tion is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of 
renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary 
of wax; the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, 
and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied 
that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he 
hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence 
is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt' 
to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint 
almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness 
of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shak- 
speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to 
light up some portion of his character or works, and to 
rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, 
opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 123 

the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity 
from their notes at the bottom of each page; and every 
casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy 
or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the 
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of 
homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was 
for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I 
should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated 
in every attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line 
had been explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed 
beyond the reach of elucidation; and as to fine passages, 
they had all been amply praised by previous admirers; 
nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded 
with panegyric by a great German critic, that it was 
difficult now to find even a fault that had not been argued 
into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 
'' Henry IV.," and was, in a moment, completely lost in the 
madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly 
and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and 
with such force and consistency are the characters sus- 
tained, that they become mingled up in the mind with 
the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does 
it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, 
and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters 
ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as 
valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thou- 
sand years since: and, if I may be excused such an in- 
sensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would 
not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient 
chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, 
or men like me? They have conquered countries of which 
I do not enjoy an acre; or they have gained laurels of 
which I do not inherit a leaf; or they have furnished ex- 



124 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

amples of hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the 
opportunity nor the incHnation to follow. But, old Jack 
Falstaff! — kind Jack Falstaff! — sweet Jack Falstaff ! — has 
enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he has 
added vast regions of wit and good humor, in which the 
poorest man may revel; and has bequeathed a never- 
failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind 
merrier and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me: ''I will make a pilgrim- 
age to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, ''and see if 
the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but 
I may light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly 
and her guests; at any rate, there will be a kindred pleas- 
ure, in treading the halls once vocal with their mirth, to 
that the toper enjoys in smelling of the empty cask once 
filled with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execu- 
tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and 
wonders I encountered in my travels; of the haunted 
regions of Cock Lane; of the faded glories of Little Britain, 
and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton- 
street and old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its 
two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and 
the terror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited 
London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation 
of that arch rebel. Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where 
the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as 
Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. 
For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, ''was always famous for 
its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef 
roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals: there was 
clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." 
Alas! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring 
days of Falstaff and old Stowe! The madcap royster has 
given place to the plodding tradesman; the clattering of 
pots and the sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 125 

of carts and the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell; 
and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some siren 
from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mack- 
erel. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in 
stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at present 
is built into the parting line of two houses, which stand 
on the site of the renowned old tavern. 

For the histor}^ of this little abode of good fellowship, I 
was* referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who 
had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked 
up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. 
I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of 
which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, 
laid out as a flower-garden; while a glass door opposite 
afforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of 
soap and tallow candles: the two views, which comprised, 
in all probabihty, her prospects in Ufe, and the little 
world in which she had lived, and moved, and had her 
being, for the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and 
little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was 
doubtless, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the 
history of the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed 
the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communi- 
cative disposition, which I have generally remarked in 
intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their 
neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history 
of the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly 
espoused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, 
when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon re- 
built, and continued to flourish under the old name and 
sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double 
scores, bad measures, and other iniquities, which are in- 
cident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavgred to mak^ 



126 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

his peace with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. 
Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, towards the supporting 
of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were 
regularly held there; but it was observed that the old 
Boar never held up his head under church government. 
He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp 
about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned 
into shops; but she informed me that a picture of it was 
still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just 
in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my 
determination; so, having informed myself of the aBode 
of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler 
of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her 
opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished an important 
incident in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to 
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to 
explore Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, 
and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, 
like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. 
At length I traced him to a corner of a small court sur- 
rounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy 
about as much of the face of heaven, as a community of 
frogs at the bottom of a well. 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bow- 
ing, lowly habit: yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his 
eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a 
small pleasantry; such as a man of his low estate might 
venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, 
and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- 
pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's 
angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, 
and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot 
of ale — for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate 
on any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool 
tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at the 
moment when they had finished their ale and their argu- 
ment, and were about to repair to the church to put it in 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 127 

order; so having made known my wishes, I received their 
gracious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a 
short distance from Bilhngsgate, is enriched with the 
tombs of many fishmongers of renown; and as every pro- 
fession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of 
great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fish- 
monger of the olden time is regarded with as much rever- 
ence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets 
feel contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the 
monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illus- 
trious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, 
contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, Wil- 
liam Walworth, knight, who so manfully clove down the 
sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield; a hero worthy of 
honorable blaz,on, as almost the only Lord Mayor on 
record famous for deeds of arms: — the sovereigns of 
Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of 
all potentates.^ 

1 The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of 
this worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagra- 
tion. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
He left this lyff the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the ven- 
erable Stowe. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad 
by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir 
William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack 
Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash- 



128 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately 
under the back window of what was once the Boar's 
Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom 
drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since 
this trusty drawer of good liquor closed hiS" bustling 
career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of his 
customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his 
epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a 
mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice, that once 
upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was 
unruly, howling, and whistling, banging about doors and 
windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that the living 
were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead could 
not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest 
Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the church- 
yard, was attracted by the well-known call of ''waiter" 
from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance 
in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was 
singing a stave from the ''mirre garland of Captain 
Death;" to the discomfiture of sundry train-band cap- 
tains, and the conversion of an infidel attorney, who be- 
came a zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known 
to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of busi- 
ness. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge my- 
self for the authenticity of this anecdote; though it is well 
known that the church-yards and by-corners of this old 
metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits; 
and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, 
and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, 
which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out 
of their wits. 

Be all this as it ma;y, this Robert Preston seems to have 
been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, 

Conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good 
records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were 
Wat Tyler, as the first man; the second was John, or Jack, Straw," 
^tc., etc, Stowe's Londav^. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 129 

who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been 
equally prompt with his "anon, anon, sir;" and to have 
transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the 
veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, 
flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack; whereas 
honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his 
conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his 
measure. ^ The worthy dignitaries of the church, how- 
ever, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues 
of the tapster; the deputy organist, who had a moist look 
out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the ab- 
stemiousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads; 
and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a signifi- 
cant wink, and a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light 
on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, 
yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the 
picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting 
was to be found in the church of St. Michael. ''Marry 
and amen!" said I, ''here endeth my research!" So I 
was giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled anti- 
quary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be 
curious in every thing relative to the old tavern, offered 
to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had 
been handed down from remote times, when the parish 

1 As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it 
for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the pro- 
duction of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here" he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 

9 



X30 ^^^ SKETCH-BOOK 

meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These were de- 
posited in the parish club-room, which had been trans- 
ferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a 
tavern in the neighborhood. • 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands 
No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, 
and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the ''bully- 
rock" of the establishment. It is one of those little 
taverns which abound in the heart of the city, and form 
the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. 
We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; 
for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are 
enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad 
day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was 
partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread 
with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed 
that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided 
their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At 
the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before 
which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright 
brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the 
mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one 
corner. There was something primitive in this medley 
of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to 
earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was 
humble, but every thing had that look of order and neat- 
ness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable 
English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking be- 
ings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regal- 
ing themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of 
rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little mis- 
shapen back-room, having at least nine corners. It was 
lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern 
chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. 
It was evidently appropriated to particular customers, 
and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil- 
cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on a half- 
empty pot of porter. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 131 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with 
an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. 
Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little 
woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of host- 
esses. Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an 
opportunity to oblige; and hurrying up stairs to the 
archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the 
parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and 
courtesying, with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco- 
box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry 
had smoked at their stated meetings, since time imme- 
morial; and which was never suffered to be profaned by 
vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. I received 
it with becoming reverence; but what was my delight, 
at beholding on its cover the identical painting of which 
I was in quest! There was displayed the outside of the 
Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen 
the whole convivial group, at table, in full revel; pictured 
with that wonderful fidelity and force, with which the 
portraits of renowned generals and commodores are illus- 
trated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of posterity. 
Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cunning 
limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and 
Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly 
obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir 
Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the 
Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was ''repaired and 
beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." 
Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable 
relic; and I question whether the learned Scriblerius con- 
templated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round 
Table the long-sought san-grfeal, with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, 
Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest 
it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, 
which also belonged to the vestry, and was descended 



132 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of 
having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was 
held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being con- 
sidered very ''antyke." This last opinion was strength- 
ened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil- 
cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a 
lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He sud- 
denly roused from his meditation on the pot of porter, 
and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, 
''Ay, ay! the head don't ache now that made that there 
article!" 

The great importance attached to this memento of 
ancient revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled 
me; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so 
much as antiquarian research; for I immediately per- 
ceived that this could be no other than the identical 
"parcel-gilt goblet" on which Falstaff made his loving, 
but faithless vow to Dame Quickly; and which would, of 
course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of 
her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract. ^ 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the 
goblet had been handed down from generation to genera- 
tion. She also entertained me with many particulars con- 
cerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated themselves 
thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters of East- 
cheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of 
smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, 
lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters 
as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, 
about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry 
crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are 
several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant 

1 Thou didst swear to me upon a -parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my 
Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednes- 
day, in Whitsunweek, when the prince broke thy head for likening 
his father to a singing man at Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, 
as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, 
thy wife. Canst thou deny it? — Henry IV., Part 2. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 133 

among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which 
they give as transmitted down from their forefathers; 
and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands 
on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes 
of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he 
makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 
further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medi- 
tation. His head had declined a little on one side; a 
deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach; 
and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, 
yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of 
his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through 
the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully 
on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness 
before the fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my rec- 
ondite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from 
his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, 
putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude and 
goodness, I departed, with a hearty benediction on him, 
Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane; 
— not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, in 
the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a ^'tedious brief" account of this 
interesting research, for which, if it prove too short and 
unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this 
branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present 
day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of the 
immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have 
touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk; comprising 
the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and 
Robert Preston; some notice of the eminent fishmongers 
of St. Michael's; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; 
private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty 
daughter, whom I have not even mentioned; to say noth- 
ing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, 
by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat 



134 THE SKETCH-BOOK \ 

foot and ankle;)— the whole enlivened by the riots of \ 

Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. .] 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future ■ 

commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco- \ 

box, and the ''parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus \ 

brought to light, the subjects of future engravings, and j 

almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and dis- ! 

putes as the shield of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland ' 

vase. I 

\ 

\ 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in 
which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and 
seek some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries 
and build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I 
was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster 
Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which 
one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection; when 
suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from West- 
minster School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the 
monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted pas- 
sages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. 
I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating 
still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to 
one of the vergers for admission to the library. He con- 
ducted me through a portal rich with the crumbling 
sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy 
passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in 
which doomsday book is deposited. Just within the pas- 
sage is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied 
a key; it was double locked, and opened with some dif- 



136 5^^^ SKETCH-BOOK 

ficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark 
narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door, 
entered the Ubrary. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- 
ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was 
soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a consid- 
erable height from the floor, and which apparently opened 
upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of 
some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung 
over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery 
were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They 
consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were 
much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the 
library was a solitary table with two or three books on it, 
an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long 
disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and 
profound meditation. It was buried deep among the 
massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult 
of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts 
of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and 
the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly 
along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of 
merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died 
away; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence 
reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound 
in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the 
table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, 
however, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and 
lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I 
looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering 
covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never 
disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the 
library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like 
mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and 
moulder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 
now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 137 

head! how many weary days! how many sleepless nights! 
How have their authors buried themselves in the solitude 
of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of 
man, and the still more blessed face of nature; and de- 
voted themselves to painful research and intense reflec- 
tion! And all for what? to occupy an inch of dusty 
shelf — to have the title of their works read now and then 
in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or casual 
straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost, even 
to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted 
immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; 
like the toll of that bell which has just tolled among 
these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering 
transiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing 
that was not! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these un- 
profitable speculations with my head resting on my hand, 
I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, 
until I accidentally loosened the clasps; when, to my 
astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, 
like one awaking from a deep sleep; then a husky hem; 
and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very 
hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb 
which some studious spider had woven across it; and 
having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to 
the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, 
however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an 
exceedingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, 
to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pro- 
nunciation, what, in the present day, would be deemed 
barbarous; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to 
render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and 
other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and 
complained bitterly that it had not been opened for mcire 
than two centuries. That the dean only looked now and 
then into the library, sometimes took down a volume 



138 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then 
returned them to their shelves. '^What a plague do they 
mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive 
was somewhat choleric, '^what a plague do they mean 
by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, 
and watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties 
in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the 
dean? Books were written to give pleasure and to be 
enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the dean 
should pay each of us a visit at least once a year; or if he 
is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn 
loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at 
any rate we may now and then have an airing." 

''Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, ''you are not 
aware how much better you are off than most books of 
your generation. By being stored away in this ancient 
Hbrary, you are like the treasured remains of those saints 
and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the adjoining chap- 
els; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left 
to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned 
to dust." 

"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and look- 
ing big, "I was written for all the world, not for the 
bookworms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate 
from hand to hand, like other gi-eat contemporary works; 
but here have I been clasped up for more than two cen- 
turies, and might have silently fallen a prey to these 
worms that are playing the very vengeance with my 
intestines, if you had not by chance given me an oppor- 
tunity of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 

"My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this 
have been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, 
you are now well stricken in years: very few of your con- 
temporaries can be at present in existence; and those 
feV owe their longevity to being immured like yourself 
in old libraries; which, suffer me to add, instead of liken- 
ing to harems, you might more properly and gratefully 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 139 

have compared to those infirmaries attached to reHgious 
estabhshments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, 
and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they 
often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. 
You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — 
where do we meet with their works? what do we hear 
of Robert Grosteste, of Lincoln? No one could have 
toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have 
written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it 
were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name: but, 
alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few 
fragments are scattered in various libraries, where they 
are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What 
do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, anti- 
quary, philosopher, theologian, and poet? He declined 
two bishoprics, that he might shut himself up and write 
for posterity; but posterity never inquires after his labors. 
What of Henry of Huntingdon, v/ho, besides a learned 
history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt 
of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting 
him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the 
miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three 
great heroic poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere 
fragment; the others are known only to a few of the cu- 
rious in literature; and as to his love verses and epigrams, 
they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use 
of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name 
of the tree of life? Of William of Malmsbury; — of Simeon 
of Durham; — of Benedict of Peterborough; — of John 

Hanvill of St. Albans; — of " 

''Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, 
''how old do you think me? You are talking of authors 
that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin 
or French, so that they in a manner expatriated them- 
selves, and deserved to be forgotten;^ but I, sir, was 
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned 

1 In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great 
delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes 



140 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native 
tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant 
English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in 
such intolerably antiquated terms, that 1 have had infi- 
nite difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

**I cry your mercy,'' said I, ''for mistaking your age; 
but it matters little: almost all the writers of your time 
have likewise passed into f orgetfulness ; and De Worde's 
publications are mere literary rarities among book- 
collectors. The purity and stability of language, too, 
on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been 
the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even 
back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, 
who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. ^ 
Even now many talk of Spenser's 'well of pure English 
undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well or 
fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence 
of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and 
intermixtures. It is this which has made English litera- 
ture so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon 
it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to some- 
thing more permanent and unchangeable than such a 
medium, even thought must share the fate of every thing 
else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check 
upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. 

there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche 
the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in hearying of 
Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer's Testament of Love. 

1 Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, ''afterwards, also, by deli- 
gent travel! of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of 
Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lyd- 
gate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent 
passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection 
until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of 
Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have 
fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their great praise 
and immortal commendation." 



THE M U TA BILl T Y OF LI TERA TURE 141 

He finds the language in which he has embarked his 
fame gradually altering, and subject to the dilapidations 
of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back and 
beholds the early authors of his country, once the favor- 
ites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few 
short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their 
merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the 
bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate 
of his own work, which, however it may be admired in 
its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the 
course of years grow antiquated and obsolete; until it 
shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as 
an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions 
said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added 
I, with some emotion, ''when I contemplate a modern 
library, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich 
gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep; 
like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked 
out in all the splendor of military array, and reflected 
that in one hundred years not one of them would be in 
existence!" 

''Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see 
how it is; these modern scribblers have superseded all the 
good old authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-days 
but Sir Philip Sydney's 'Arcadia,' Sackville's stately 
plays, and 'Mirror for Magistrates,' or the fine-spun 
euphuisms of the 'unparalleled John Lyly.'" 

"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to 
be so when you were last in circulation, -have long since 
had their day. Sir Philip Sydney's 'Arcadia,' the im- 
mortality of which was so fondly predicted by his admir- 
ers, ^ and w^hich, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, 
delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now 

1 Live ever sweete booke; the simple ima,ge of his gentle witt, and 
the golden-pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto the world 
that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the 
muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the 



142 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into 
obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were once 
the deUght of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a 
proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole 
crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, 
have likewise gone down, with all their writings and their 
controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature 
has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that 
it is only now and then that some industrious diver after 
fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the 
gratification of the curious. 

''For my part," I continued, ''I consider this muta- 
bility of language a wise precaution of Providence for the 
benefit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. 
To reason from analogy, we daily behold the varied and 
beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, 
adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into 
dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this 
the case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance 
instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank 
and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled 
wilderness. In like manner the works of genius and learn- 
ing decline, and make way for subsequent productions. 
Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the 
writings of authors who have flourished their allotted 
time; otherwise, the creative powers of genius would over- 
stock the world, and the mind would be completely 
bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly 
there were some restraints on this excessive multipli- 
cation. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which 
was a slow and laborious operation; they were written 
either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one 
work was often erased to make way for another; or on 
papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. 

pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the 
field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Practise in 
esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. — Harvey Pierce's 
Supererogation, 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 143 

Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued 
chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their clois- 
ters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and 
costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To 
these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing 
that we have not been inundated by the intellect of an- 
tiquity; that the fountains of thought have been broken 
up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the 
inventions of paper and the press have put an end to 
all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, 
and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and 
diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The 
consequences are alarming. The stream of literature 
has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — 
expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six 
hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but 
what would you say to libraries such as actually exist, 
containing three or four hundred thousand volumes; 
legions of authors at the same time busy; and the press 
going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and 
quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen mor- 
tality should break out among the progeny of the muse, 
now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for pos- 
terity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not 
be sufficient. Criticism may do much. It increases 
with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those 
salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. 
All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given 
to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will 
be in vain; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, 
printers will print, and the world will inevitably be over- 
stocked with good books. It will soon be the employment 
of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of 
passable information, at the present day, reads scarcely 
any thing but reviews ; and before long a man of erudition 
will be little better than a mere walking catalogue." 

^'My very good sir," said the httle quarto, yawning 
most drearily in my face, ''excuse my interrupting you, 



144 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would 
ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just 
as I left the world. His reputation, however, was con- 
sidered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads 
at him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew 
little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged 
to run the country for deer-stealing. I think his name 
was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

''On the contrary," said I, ''it is owing to that very 
man that the literature of his period has experienced a 
duration beyond the ordinary term of English literature. 
There rise authors now and then, who seem proof against 
the mutability of language, because they have rooted 
themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. 
They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the 
banks of a stream; which, by their vast and deep roots, 
penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on 
the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around 
them from being swept away by the ever-flowing current, 
and hold up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, 
worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with 
Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the encroachments 
of time, retaining in modern use the language and liter- 
ature of his day, and giving duration to many an indiffer- 
ent author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. 
But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the 
tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion 
of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, 
almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and 
chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of 
laughter that had well nigh choked him, by reason of his 
excessive corpulency. "Mighty well!" cried he, as soon 
as he could recover breath, "mighty well! and so you 
would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be 
perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer! by a man with- 
out learning; by a poet, forsooth — a poet!" And here 
he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE I45 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having 
flourished in a less polished age. I determined, never- 
theless, not to give up my point. 

*'Yes," resumed I, positively, ''a poet; for of all 
writers he has the best chance for immortality. Others 
may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, 
and the heart will always understand him. He is the 
faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are always 
the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are 
voluminous and unwieldy; their pages are crowned with 
commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tedious- 
ness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touch- 
ing, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the 
choicest language. He illustrates them by every thing 
that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches 
them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before 
him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the 
aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he 
lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small 
compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, 
which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. 
The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require 
now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; 
but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue 
unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of liter- 
ary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with 
monkish legends and academical controversies! what 
bogs of theological speculations! what dreary wastes of 
metaphysics! . Here and there only do we behold the 
heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on their 
widely-separate heights, to transmit the pure light of 
poetical intelligence from age to age."^ 



1 Thorow earth and water deepe, 
The pen by skill doth passe: 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 
And shoes us in a glasse, 
10 



146 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon 
the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the 
door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, 
who came to inform me that it was time to close the 
library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, 
but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were 
closed: and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had 
passed. I have been to the library two or three times 
since, and have endeavored to draw it into further con- 
versation, but in vain; and whether all this rambling 
colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another 
of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have 
never to this moment been able to discover. 



The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hvye, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard. 



RURAL FUNERALS 

Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more: 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 

Are stre wings fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now wither 'd; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural 
life which still linger in some parts of England, are those 
of strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting them 
at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are 
the remains of some of the rites of the primitive church; 
but they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed 
among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently men- 
tioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, the sponta- 
neous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long 
before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, 
or story it on the monument. They are now only to be 
met with in the most distant and retired places of the 
kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been 
able to throng in, and trample out all the curious and in- 
teresting traces of the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in 
one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia: 

White his shroud as the mountain snow 

Larded all with sweet flowers; 
Which be- wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite ob- 



148 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

served in some of the remote villages of the south, at the 
funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. 
A chaplet of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a 
young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is 
afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed 
seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes 
made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside 
of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are 
intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and 
the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried 
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns: a 
kind of triumph, 'Ho show," says Bourne, "that they 
have finished their course with joy, and are become con- 
querors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of 
the northern counties, particularly 'in Northumberland, 
and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, 
of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mourn- 
ful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and 
to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to 
the passing funeral in these sequestered places; for such 
spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, 
sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train ap- 
proaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then 
follows silently in the rear; sometimes quite to the grave, 
at other times for a few hundred yards, and, having paid 
this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes 
his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the 
English character, and gives it some of its most touching 



RURAL FUNERALS 149 

and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic 
customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common 
people for an honored and a peaceful grave. The hum- 
blest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, 
is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his 
remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the ''faire 
and happy milkmaid," observes, ''thus lives she, and all 
her care is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have 
store of flowers stucke upon her windingsheet." The 
poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, 
continually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. 
In ''The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, 
there is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing the 
capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl: 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sign, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves w^as once universally 
prevalent: osiers were carefully bent over them to keep 
the turf uninjured, and about them were planted ever- 
greens and flowers. "We adorn their graves," says 
Evelyn, in his " Sylva," '^ with flowers and redolent plants, 
just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared 
in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots 
being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." This 
usage has now become extremely rare in England; but 
it may still be met with in the church-yards of retired 
villages, among the Welsh mountains; and I recollect an 
instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at 
the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been 
told also by a friend, who w^as present at the funeral of a 
young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants 
had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body 
was interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in 



150 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck 
in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, 
and might be seen in various states of decay ; some droop- 
ing, others quite perished. They were afterwards to be 
supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens; 
which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, 
and overshadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the 
arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had some- 
thing in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blen- 
ded with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mor- 
tality. ''This sweet flower," said Evelyn, ''borne on a 
branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are 
natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, 
and transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a 
time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The 
nature and color of the flowers, and of the ribbons with 
which they were tied, had often a particular reference to 
the qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive 
of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled 
''Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the deco- 
rations he intends to use: 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-colored flowers, 

In token of good-will. 

And sundry-color'd ribands 

On it I will bestow; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers, 

The rarest ever seen; 
And with my tears as showers, 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave 
of a virgin; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in 
token of her spotless innocence; though sometimes black 



RURAL FUNERALS 151 

ribbons were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the 
survivors. The red rose was occasionally used in re- 
membrance of such as had been remarkable for benevo- 
lence; but roses in general were appropriated to the graves 
of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not al- 
together extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the 
county of Surrey, ''where the maidens yearly planted and 
decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose- 
bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his ''Britan- 
nia:" "Here is also a certain custom, observed time out 
of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially 
by the young men and maids who have lost their loves; 
so that this church-yard is now full of them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, 
emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as 
the yew and cypress; and if flowers were strewn, they were 
of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by 
Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following 
stanza: 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismal grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In "The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals 
of females who had been disappointed in love: 

Lay a garland on my hearse, 

Of the dismall yew, 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth, 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine 



152 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

and elevate the mind; and we have a proof of it in the 
purity of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of 
thought which pervaded the whole of these funeral ob- 
servances. Thus, it was an especial precaution that none 
but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be em- 
ployed. The intention seems to have been to soften the 
horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding 
over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate 
the memory of the deceased with the most delicate and 
beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal process 
going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred 
dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplating; 
and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with 
those refined associations which it awakened when bloom- 
ing before us in youth and beauty. ''Lay her i' the 
earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister. 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring! 

Herrick, also, in his ''Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a 
fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a 
manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the 
living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise: 

May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers! 
May virgins, when they come to mourn, 
Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older 
British poets who wrote when these rites were more preva- 



RURAL FUNERALS 153 

lent, and delighted frequently to allude to them; but I 
have already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot 
however refrain from giving a passage from Shakspeare, 
even though it should appear trite; which illustrates the 
emblematical meaning often conveyed in these floral 
tributes; and at the same time possesses that magic of 
language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands 
pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's Hke thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the 
most costly monuments of art; the hand strews the flower 
while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave 
as affection is binding the osier round the sod; but pathos 
expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled 
among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly 
elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, 
and exists only in the most remote and insignificant vil- 
lages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns 
the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people 
grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of 
poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulse, 
to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most 
affecting and picturesque usages, by studied form and 
pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately 
and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made 
up of show and gloomy parade; mourning carriages, 
mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourn- 
ers, who make a mockery of grief. ''There is a grave 
digged," says Jeremy Taylor, ''and a solemn mourning, 
and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when the dales 



154 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered 
no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city 
is soon forgotten; the hurrying succession of new inti- 
mates and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, 
and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are 
incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are 
solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider 
space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the 
tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls 
its knell in every ear; it steals with its pervading melan- 
choly over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also 
perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once 
enjoyed them; who was the companion of our most retired 
walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His 
idea is ^associated with every charm of nature; we hear 
his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken; 
his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented; 
we think of him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst 
the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of 
joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and 
bounding gayety; and when sober evening returns with 
its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind 
many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled 
melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

For him the tear be duly shed; 
Beloved, till life can charm no more; 

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- 
ceased in the country is that the grave is more immediately 
in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to 
prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened 
by the exercises of devotion; they linger about it on the 
Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly 
cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleas- 
ures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn 



RURAL FUNERALS 155 

mementos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry 
kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends, 
for several Sundays after the interment ; and where the ten- 
der rite of strewing and planting flowers is still practised, 
it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other 
festivals, when the season brings the companion of former 
festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably 
performed by the nearest relatives and friends; no menials 
nor hirelings are employed; and if a neighbor yields 
assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compen- 
sation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, 
as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of 
love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is 
there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its 
superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal 
attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed 
and kept alive by the presence of its object; but the love 
that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. 
The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with 
the charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering 
disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb; but it is 
thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from 
every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to 
illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which 
we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to 
heal — every other affliction to forget; but this wound we 
consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish 
and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who 
would willingly forget the infant that perished like a 
blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a 
pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the 
most tender of parents, though to remember be but to 
lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget 
the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the 
tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved; 
when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing 



156 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

of its portal; would accept of consolation that must be 
bought by forgetfulness? — No, the love which survives 
the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If 
it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the 
overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle 
tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish and the con- 
vulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most 
loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all 
that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root 
out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may some- 
times throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gay- 
ety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, 
yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, 
or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the 
tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the 
dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. 
Oh, the grave! — the grave! — It buries every error — covers 
every defect — extinguishes every resentment! From its 
peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender 
recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even 
of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he 
should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth 
that lies mouldering before him. 

But. the grave of those we loved — what a place for 
meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the 
whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand 
endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the 
daily intercourse of intimacy — there it is that we dwell 
upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the 
parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled 
griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful as- 
siduities. The last testimonies of expiring love! The 
feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh! how thrilling! — pressure 
of the hand! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in 
death to give one more assurance of affection! The 
last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even 
from the threshold of existence! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! 



RURAL FUNERALS 157 

There Settle the account with thy conscience for every 
past benefit unrequited — every past endearment unre- 
garded, of that departed being, who can never — never — 
never return to be soothed by thy contrition! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the 
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate 
parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the 
fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms 
to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if 
thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or 
word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in 
thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmer- 
ited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still 
beneath thy feet; — then be sure that every unkind look, 
every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come 
thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dole- 
fully at the soul — then be sure that thou wilt lie down 
sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the un- 
heard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, 
more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beau- 
ties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, 
if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of re- 
gret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy con- 
trite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more 
faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to 
the living. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to 
give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English 
peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quota- 
tions illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by 
way of note, to another paper, which has been withheld. 
The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and 
this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a 



158 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

notice of these usages, after they have been amply and 
learnedly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus- 
tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other 
countries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much 
more general, and is observed even by the rich and fashion- 
able; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to de- 
generate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower 
Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses 
formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers 
of greenhouse plants; and that the graves generally are 
covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives 
a casual picture of filial piety, which I cannot but tran- 
scribe; for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful, to 
illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. ''When I was 
at Berlin," says he, ''I followed the celebrated Iffland to 
the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace 
much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my 
attention was attracted by a young woman, who stood 
on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she 
anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. 
It was the tomb of her parent; and the figure of this 
affectionate daughter presented a monument more strik- 
ing than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration 
that I once met with among the mountains of Switzer- 
land. It was at the village of Gersau, which stands on the 
borders of the Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. 
It was once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up 
between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on the 
land side only by foot-paths. The whole force of the 
republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men; and a 
few miles of circumference, scooped out as it were from 
the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. 
The village of Gersau seemed separated frpm the rest of 
the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer 
age. It had a small church, with a burying-ground ad- 
joining. At the heads of the graves were placed crosses 



RURAL FUNERALS 159 

of wood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, 
rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses of 
the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of 
flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally 
renewed. I paused with interest at this scene; I felt that 
I was at the source of poetical description, for these were 
the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the heart which 
poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more populous 
place, I should have suspected them to have been sug- 
gested by factitious sentiment, derived from books; but 
the good people of Gersau knew little of books; there was 
not a novel nor a love poem in the village; and I question 
whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he was 
twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that 
he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical 
devotion, and that he was practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? 

Falstaff, 

During a journey that I once made through the Nether- 
lands, I had arrived one evening at the Pomme d' Or, the 
principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the 
hour of the table d'hote, so that I was obliged to make a 
solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The 
weather was chilly; I was seated alone in one end of a 
great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, I 
had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without 
any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine 
•host, and requested something to read; be brought me 
the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family 
Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of 
old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the 
latter, reading old and stale criticisms, my ear was now 
and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to 
proceed from the kitchen. Every one that has travelled 
on the continent must know how favorite a resort the 
kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order 
of travellers; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather 
when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw 
aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, 
to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. 
It was composed partly of travellers who had arrived 
some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual 
attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated 
round a great burnished stove, that might have been 



THE INN KITCHEN 161 

mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshipping. 
It was covered with various kitchen vessels of resplendent 
brightness; among which steamed and hissed a huge cop- 
per tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of 
light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in 
strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the 
spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners; 
except where they settled in mellow radiance on the 
broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back 
from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed from the midst 
of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden 
pendants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart 
suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and 
most of them with some kind of evening potation. I 
found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a 
little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and 
large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the 
end of each of which there was one of those bursts of 
honest unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges 
in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and 
listened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very ex- 
travagant, and most very dull. All of them, however, 
have faded from my treacherous memory except one, 
which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it de- 
rived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, 
and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. 
He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a 
veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished green 
travelling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and 
a pair of overalls, with buttons from the hips to the an- 
kles. He was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a 
double chin, aquihne nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. 
His hair was light, and curled from under an old green 
velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. He 
was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, 
U 



162 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

or the remarks of his auditors; and paused now and then 
to replenish his pipe; at which times he had generally a 
roguish leer, and a sly joke for the buxom kitchen-maid. 
I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling 
in a huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a 
curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ^cume 
de mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — 
his head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the 
eye occasionally, as he related the following story. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

A traveller's tale 1 

He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, 
a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies 
not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, 
there stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the 
Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, 
and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs; 
above which, however, its old watch-tower may still be 
seen, struggling, like the former possessor I have men- 
tioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon the 
neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen, 2 and inherited the relics of the prop- 
erty, and all the pride of his ancestors. ' Though the 
warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired 
the family possessions, yet the baron still endeavored to 

1 The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will per- 
ceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss 
by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place 
at Paris. 

2 i. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very 
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given 
in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her 
fine arm. 



164 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

keep up some show of former state. The times were 
peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had aban- 
doned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' 
nests among the mountains, and had built more conven- 
ient residences in the valleys: still the baron remained 
proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing, with 
hereditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that he 
was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on 
account of disputes that had happened between their 
great-great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature, 
when she grants but one child, always compensates by 
making it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of 
the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins 
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty, 
in all Germany; and who should know better than they? 
She had, moreover, been brought up with great care 
under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who 
had spent some years of their early life at one of the little 
German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of 
knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. 
Under their instructions she became a miracle of accom- 
plishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could 
embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories 
of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression 
in their countenances, that they looked like so many 
souls in purgatory. She could read without great diffi- 
culty, and had spelled her way through several church 
legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the 
Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable profi- 
ciency in writing; could sign her own name without miss- 
ing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it 
without spectacles. She excelled in making httle elegant 
good-for-nothing lady-like nicknacks of all kinds; was 
versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; played a 
number of airs on the harp and guitar; and knew all the 
tender ballads of the Minne-lieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 165 

in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be 
vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of 
their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and 
inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She 
was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond 
the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or rather 
well watched; had continual lectures read to her about 
strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to the 
men — pah! — she was taught to hold them at such a dis- 
tance, and in such absolute distrust, that, unless properly 
authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the 
handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not if he were even 
dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully ap- 
parent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and 
correctness. While others were wasting their sweetness 
in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and 
thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming 
into fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection 
of those immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing 
forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon 
her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though 
all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, 
yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to 
the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might 
be provided with children, his household was by no means 
a small one; for Providence had enriched him with abun- 
dance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed 
the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives; 
were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every 
possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the 
castle. All family festivals were commemorated by 
these good people at the baron's expense; and when they 
were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there 
was nothing on earth so delightful as these family meet- 
ings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 



166 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being 
the greatest man in the little world about him. He loved 
to tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose por- 
traits looked grimly down from the walls around, and he 
found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. 
He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer 
in all those supernatural tales with which every moun- 
tain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his 
guests exceeded even his own: they listened to every tale 
of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to 
be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth 
time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle 
of his table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, 
and happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he 
was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great 
family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost 
importance: it was to receive the destined bridegroom of 
the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried 
on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, 
to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of 
their children. The preliminaries had been conducted 
with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed 
without seeing each other; and the time was appointed 
for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von 
Altenburg had been recalled from the army for the purpose 
and was actually on his way to the baron's to re- 
ceive this bride. Missives had even been received from 
him, from Wiirtzburg, where he was accidentally de- 
tained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be 
expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a 
suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out 
with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended 
her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every 
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advan- 
tage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste; 
and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 167 

as youthful bridegroom could desire; and the flutter of 
expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the 
gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in 
reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on 
in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering 
around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest 
in affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world 
of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and 
in what manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He 
had, in truth, nothing exactly to do: but he was naturally 
a fuming bustling little man, and could not remain pas- 
sive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried from 
top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; 
he continually called the servants from their work to 
exhort them to be diUgent; and buzzed about every hall 
and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue- 
bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed; the 
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the 
kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had 
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein; 
and even the great Heidelburg tun had been laid under 
contribution. Every thing was ready to receive the 
distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in the true spirit 
of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make 
his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, 
that had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest 
of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits 
of the mountains. The baron mounted the highest 
tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant 
sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought 
he beheld them; the sound of horns came floating from 
the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number 
of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along 
the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of 
the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different 



168 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

direction. The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats 
began to flit by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer 
and dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared stirring 
in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from 
his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a 
different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pur- 
suing his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man 
travels toward matrimony when his friends have taken 
all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, 
and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at 
the end of his journey. He had encountered at Wiirtz- 
burg a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had 
seen some service on the frontiers; Herman Von Starken- 
faust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of 
German chivalry, who was now returning from the army. 
His father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress 
of Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the 
families hostile, and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, 
and the count gave the whole history of his intended 
nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but 
of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing 
descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, 
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; 
and, that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from 
Wiirtzburg at an early hour, the count having given 
directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of 
their military scenes and adventures; but the count was 
apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed 
charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of 
the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 169 

tind thickly-wooded passes. It is well known that the 
forests of Germany have always been as much infested by 
robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at this time, the 
former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of 
disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It will 
not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers 
were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst 
of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, 
but were nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue 
arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers 
fled, but not until the count had received a mortal wound. 
He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city 
of Wiirtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring 
convent, who was famous for his skill in administering to 
both soul and body; but half of his skill was superfluous; 
the moments of the unfortunate count were numbered. 
- With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair 
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the 
fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with his 
bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was 
one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earn- 
estly solicitous that his mission should be speedily and 
courteously executed. ''Unless this is done," said he, ''I 
shall not sleep quietly in my grave!" He repeated these 
last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a 
moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starken- 
faust endeavored to soothe him to calmness; promised 
faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in 
solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowl- 
edgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about 
his bride — his engagements — his plighted word; ordered 
his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort; 
and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on 
the untimely fate of his comrade; and then pondered on 
the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was 
heavy, and his head perplexed ; for he was to present him- 
self an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp 



170 'I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still 
there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom 
to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cau- 
tiously shut up from the world; for he was a passionate 
admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity 
and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all 
singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrange- 
ments with the holy fraternity of the convent for the 
funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in 
the cathedral of Wiirtzburg, near some of his illustrious 
relatives; and the mourning retinue of the count took 
charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for 
their guest, and still more for their dinner; and to the 
worthy little baron, whom we left airing himself on the 
watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, 
which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no 
longer be postponed. The meats were already over- 
done; the cook in an agony; and the whole household had 
the look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. 
The baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the 
feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated 
at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the 
sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the 
approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the 
old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered 
by the warder from the walls. The baron hastened to 
receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger 
was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, 
mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, 
but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately 
melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he 
should have come in this simple, solitary style. His 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 171 

dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to 
consider it a want of proper respect for the important 
occasion, and the important family with which he was 
to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the 
conclusion, that it must have been youthful impatience 
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his 
attendants. 

''I am sorry," said the stranger, ''to break in upon you 
thus unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of com- 
pliments and greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided 
himself upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger 
attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, 
but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow 
on. By the time the baron had come to a pause, they 
had reached the inner court of the castle; and the stranger 
was again about to speak, when he was once more inter- 
rupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, 
leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He 
gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it seemed 
as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested 
upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whis- 
pered something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; 
her moist blue eye was timidly raised; gave a shy glance 
of inquiry on the stranger; and was cast again to the 
ground. The words died away; but there was a sweet 
smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the 
cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. 
It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, 
highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be 
pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no 
time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and de- 
ferred all particular conversation until the morning, and 
led the way to the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around 
the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes 
of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which 



172 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked 
corslets, splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, 
were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare; the jaws 
of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly 
among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of 
antlers branched immediately over the head of the 
youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or 
the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but 
seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He con- 
versed in a low tone that could not be overheard — for the 
language of love is never loud; but where is the female 
ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the 
lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in 
his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect upon 
the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened 
with deep attention. Now and then she made some 
blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, she 
would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, 
and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was 
evident that the young couple were completely enamored. 
The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of 
the heart, declared that they had fallen in love with each 
other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that 
attend upon light purses and mountain air. The baron 
told his best and longest stories, and never had he told 
them so well, or with such great effect. If there was 
any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonish- 
ment; and if any thing facetious, they were sure to laugh 
exactly in the right place. The baron, it is true, like 
most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a 
dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper 
of excellent Hockheimer; and even a dull joke, at one's 
own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. 
Many good things were said by poorer and keener wits, 
that would not bear repeating, except on similar occar 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 173 

sions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that 
almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a 
song or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad- 
faced cousin of the baron, that absolutely made the 
maiden aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained 
a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His counte- 
nance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening 
advanced; and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's 
jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. 
At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a 
perturbed and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke 
a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride 
became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lower- 
ing clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her 
brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of 
the bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whispers and 
glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and 
dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh 
grew less and less frequent; there were dreary pauses in 
the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild 
tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story pro- 
duced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly 
frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the his- 
tory of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair 
Leonora; a dreadful story, which has since been put into 
excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound 
attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, 
and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise 
from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the 
baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a 
giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a 
deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. 
They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly 
thunder-struck. 



174 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, 
every thing was prepared for his reception; a chamber 
was ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and myste- 
riously; ''I must lay my head in a different chamber 
to-night!" 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in 
which it was uttered, that made the baron's heart mis- 
give him; but he rallied his forces, and repeated his 
hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at 
every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, 
stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were 
absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear 
stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of 
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the 
earth, and snorting with impatience. — When they had 
reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted 
by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the 
baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof 
rendered still more sepulchral. 

''Now that we are alone," said he, ''I will impart to 
you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indis- 
pensable engagement — " 

''Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in 
your place?" 

"It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person 
— I must away to Wiirtzburg cathedral — " 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until 
to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solem- 
nity, "my engagement is with no bride — the worms! the 
worms expect me! I am a dead man — I have been slain 
by robbers — my body lies at Wiirtzburg — at midnight 
I am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must 
keep my appointment!" 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 175 

bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in 
the whistling of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- 
tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted 
outright, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted 
with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this 
might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. 
Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of 
other supernatural beings, with which the good people of 
Germany have been so grievously harassed since time 
immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to 
suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the 
young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the ca- 
price seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. 
This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole 
company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon 
him as little better than an infidel; so that he was fain to 
abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into 
the faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, 
they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next 
day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the 
young count's murder, and his interment in Wiirtzburg 
cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who 
had come to rejoice with him, could not think of aban- 
doning him in his distress. They wandered about the 
courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their 
heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so 
good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate 
and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up 
their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride 
was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before 
she had even embraced him — and such a husband! if 
the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what 
must have been the living man. She filled the house 
with lanientations. 



176 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she 
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her 
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who 
was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, 
had just been recounting one of her longest, and had 
fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was 
remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay 
pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they 
trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. 
The castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft 
strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily 
from her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A 
tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it 
raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the counte- 
nance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bride- 
groom! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her 
ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, 
and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her 
arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disap- 
peared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most 
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. 
As to the young lady, there was something, even in the 
spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was 
still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the 
shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the 
affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is 
not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared 
she would never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, 
for once, was refractory, and declared as- strongly that she 
would sleep in no other in the castle: the consequence 
was, that she had to sleep in it alone: but she drew a 
promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spec- 
tre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleas- 
ure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over 
which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly 
vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 177 

promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the 
marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to 
tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the 
neighborhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, 
that she kept it to herself for a* whole week; when she was 
suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelli- 
gence brought to the breakfast table one morning that 
the young lady was not to be found. Her room was 
empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window was 
open, and the bird had flown! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- 
gence was received, can only be imagined by those who 
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a 
great man cause among his friends. Even the poor 
relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable 
labors of the trencher; when the aunt, who had at first 
been struck speechless, wrung her hands, *and shrieked 
out, ''The goblin! the goblin! she's carried away by the 
gobUn." 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the 
garden, and concluded that the spectre must have carried 
off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the 
opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a horse's 
hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no 
doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing 
her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the 
direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely 
common in Germany, as many well authenticated histories 
bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor 
baron! What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, 
and a member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen! 
His only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, 
or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, 
and, perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As 
usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle 
in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, and 
scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald, 
1% 



178 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-bootS; 
girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed 
to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought 
to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen ap- 
proaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a 
cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, 
sprang from her horse, and falling at the baron's feet, 
embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her 
companion — the Spectre Bridegroom! The baron was 
astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the spec- 
tre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The 
latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance 
since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was 
splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. 
He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte- 
nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted 
in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, 
in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no 
goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starken- 
faust. He related his adventure with the young count. 
He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the 
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron 
had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. 
How the sight of the bride had completely captivated 
him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly 
suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been 
sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, 
until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccen- 
tric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, 
he had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted the 
garden beneath the young lady's window — had wooed — 
had won — had borne away in triumph— and, in a word, 
had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have 
been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, 
and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved 
his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 179 

find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a 
hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. 
There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did 
not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in 
the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a 
dead man; but several old friends present, who had 
served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem 
was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled 
to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at 
the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed 
this new member of the family with loving kindness; he 
was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it 
is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of 
strict seclusion, and passive obedience should be so badly 
exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in 
not having the windows grated. One of them was par- 
ticularly mortified at having her marvellous story marred, 
and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn 
out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy 
at having found him substantial flesh and blood — and so 
the story ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie. 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty. 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content or quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie. 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the 
latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning 
and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom 
over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in 
rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was some- 
thing congenial to the season in the mournful magnifi- 
cence of the old pile; and, as I passed its threshold, seemed 
like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and los- 
ing myself among the shades of former ages. 

• I entered from the inner court of Westminster SchocJ, 
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost 
subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by 
circular perforations in the massive walls. Through 
this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, 
with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, mov- 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 181 

ing along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre 
from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the 
abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares 
the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters 
still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of former 
days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and 
crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered 
over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and ob- 
scured the death's heads, and other funereal emblems. 
The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
tracery of the arches; the roses which adorned the key- 
-stones have lost their leafy beauty; every thing bears 
marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has 
something touching and pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into 
the square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of 
grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted 
passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between 
the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a 
passing cloud; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the 
abbey towering into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating 
this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes 
endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tomb- 
stones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, 
my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in 
relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many 
generations. They were the effigies of three of the early 
abbots; the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names 
alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later 
times. (Vitalis Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. 
Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained 
some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiq- 
uity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, 
telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had 
perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride 
which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live 
in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint 



182 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease 
to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon 
these grave-stones, I was roused by the sound of the 
abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and 
echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to 
hear this warning of departed time sounding among the 
tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a 
billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pur- 
sued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior 
of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 
building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the 
vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at 
clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches 
springing from them to such an amazing height; and man 
wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance 
in comparison with his own handiwork. The spacious- 
ness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound 
and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly 
about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of 
the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls, 
and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more 
sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses 
down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noise- 
less reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the 
congregated bones of the great men of past times, who 
have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with 
their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of hu- 
man ambition, to see how they are crowded together 
and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in 
doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion 
of earth, to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not 
satisfy; and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, 
are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, 
and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name 
which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought 
and admiration. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 183 

I passed some time in Poets' Corner, which occupies an 
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. 
The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of 
literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. 
Shakspeare and Addison have statues erected to their 
memories; but the greater part have busts, medaUions, 
and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the 
simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed 
that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about 
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that 
cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze 
on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. 
They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and 
companions; for indeed there is something of companion- 
ship between the author and the reader. Other men are 
known to posterity only through the medium of history, 
which is continually growing faint and obscure: but the 
intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever 
new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them 
more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding 
enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of 
social life, that he might the more intimately commune 
with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the 
world cherish his renown; for it has been purchased, not 
by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispen- 
sation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his 
memory; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty 
names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wis- 
dom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of lan- 
guage. 

From Poets' Corner I continued my stroll towards that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the 
kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but 
which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of 
the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious 
name; or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned 
in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers 
of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies; some 



Ig4 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon 
the tombs, with hands piously pressed together: warriors 
in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with crosiers 
and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it 
were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely 
populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it 
seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that 
fabled city, where every being had been suddenly trans- 
muted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy 
of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on 
one arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication 
upon the breast: the face was almost covered by the 
morion; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's 
having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb 
of a crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who 
so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose 
exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction; 
between the history and the fairy tale. There is some- 
thing extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adven- 
turers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings 
and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the anti- 
quated chapels in which they are generally found; and 
in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with 
the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the 
chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread 
over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the 
relics of times utterly gone by; of beings passed from 
recollection; of customs and manners with which ours 
have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange 
and distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, 
and about which all our conceptions are vague and vision- 
ary. There is something extremely solemn and awful in 
those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep 
of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They 
have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings 
than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, 
and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monu- 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 185 

merits. I have been struck, also, with the superiority of 
many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a 
noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and 
yet saying them proudly; and I do not know an epitaph 
that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and 
honorable lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble 
house, that ''all the brothers were brave, and all the 
sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poets' Corner stands a 
monument which is among the most renowned achieve- 
ments of modern art; but which to me appears horrible 
rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, 
by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is repre- 
sented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted 
skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his 
fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She 
is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, 
with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The 
whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit; we al- 
most fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting 
from the distended jaws of the spectre. — But why should 
we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, 
and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love? 
The grave should be surrounded by every thing that 
might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or 
that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not 
of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy 
existence from without occasionally reaches the ear; — the 
rumbling of the passing equipage; the murmur of the 
multitude; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The 
contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around: 
and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear 
the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating 
against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, 
and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually 



186 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the ab- 
bey grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was 
summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance 
the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle 
and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to 
Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to 
it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. 
Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn 
heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit 
the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of 
sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of 
architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured de- 
tail. The very walls are wrought into universal orna- 
ment, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, 
crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone 
seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been 
robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if 
by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonder- 
ful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with 
the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On 
the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and 
crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and 
above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 
with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of 
gold and purple and crimson, with the cold gray fret- 
work of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum 
stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his effigy, with that 
of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the 
whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this 
strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of 
living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos 
which show the dust and oblivion in which all must 
sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind 
with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 187 

silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. 
On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and 
their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous 
banners that were once borne before them, my imagi- 
nation conjured up the scene when this hall was bright 
with the valor and beauty of the land; glittering with the 
splendor of jewelled rank and miUtary array; alive with 
the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring mul- 
titude. All had passed away; the silence of death had 
settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the 
casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into 
the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and 
pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 
were those of men scattered far and wide about the world; 
some tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in dis- 
tant lands; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts 
and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction 
in this mansion of shadowy honors : the melancholy reward 
of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave; which 
brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, 
and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. 
In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in the 
other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate 
Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of 
pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's 
sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy 
heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows 
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in 
deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time 
and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon 
the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, 
bearing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary 



188 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the 
monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and 
disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the 
abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant 
voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the 
faint responses of the choir; these paused for a time, and 
all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity 
that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper 
and more solemn interest to the place: 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst 
upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled inten- 
sity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How 
well do their volume and grandeur accord with this 
mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through 
its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through 
these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vo- 
cal! — And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, 
heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and 
piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and the soft 
voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; 
they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to 
play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. 
Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, 
compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the 
soul. What long-drawn cadences! What solemn sweep- 
ing concords! It grows more and more dense and power- 
ful—it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls 
— the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And 
now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the 
earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and 
floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony! 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 189 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire: the shadows 
of evening were gradually thickening round me; the monu- 
ments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom; and the 
distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, 
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confes- 
sor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to 
it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness 
of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of plat- 
form, and close around it are the sepulchres of various 
kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks 
down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels 
and chambers below, crowded with tombs; where war- 
riors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering 
in their ''beds of darkness." Close by me stood the 
great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the 
barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene 
seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to 
produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type 
of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; 
here it was literally but a step from the throne to the 
sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous 
mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to 
living greatness? — to show it, even in the moment of its 
proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which 
it must soon arrive; how soon that crown which encircles 
its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the 
dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by 
the feet of the meanest of the multitude. For, strange 
to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. 
There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads 
them to sport with awful and hallowed things; and there 
are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious 
dead the abject homage and grovelling servility which 
they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Con- 
fessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled, 



190 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

of their funeral ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen 
from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy 
of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument 
but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage 
of mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; 
some covered with ribaldry and insult — all more or less 
outraged and dishonored! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming 
through the painted windows in the high vaults above 
me; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped 
in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles 
grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded 
into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments as- 
sumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening 
breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the 
grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, travers- 
ing the Poets' Corner, had something strange and dreary 
in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and 
as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, 
closing with a jarring noise behind me, ffiled the whole 
building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind 
of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they 
were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. 
Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded 
in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot 
from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast 
assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation; 
a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of re- 
nown, and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the 
empire of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits 
in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spread- 
ing dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. 
How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! 
Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too 
much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of 
the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the 
past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 191 

forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yester- 
day out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be sup- 
planted by his successor of to-morrow. ''Our fathers," 
says Sir Thomas Browne, ''find their graves in our short 
memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our sur- 
vivors." History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded 
with doubt and controversy; the inscription moulders 
from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Col- 
umns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of 
sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the 
dust? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity 
of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander the 
Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty- 
sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. 
"The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath 
spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, 
and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."^ 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers 
above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? 
The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now 
spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; 
when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the 
wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the 
owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the gairish 
sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of 
death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column; and the 
fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as 
if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away; his 
name perishes from record and recollection; his history 
is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes 
a ruin. 2 

1 Sir T.Browne. 

2 For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. 



CHRISTMAS 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of 
his good, grey old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, 
seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold. 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell 
over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday 
customs and rural games of former times. They recall 
the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning 
of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books,- 
and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and 
they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of 
yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous 
than at present. I regret to say that they are daily 
growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away 
by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. 
They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic 
architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of 
the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, 
and partly lost in the additions and alterations of later 
4ays. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness 



CHRISTMAS 193 

about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has 
derived so many of its themes — as the ivy winds its rich 
foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, 
gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together 
their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them 
in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas 
awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. 
There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends 
with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of 
hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the 
church about this season are extremely tender and in- 
spiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin 
of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its 
announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and 
pathos during the season of Advent, until they break 
forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace 
and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect 
of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir 
and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 
in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 
triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days 
of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the an- 
nouncement of the religion of peace and love, has been 
made the season for gathering together of family connec- 
tions, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred 
hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the 
world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling 
back the children of a family, who have launched forth 
in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to as- 
semble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of 
the affections, there to grow young and loving again 
among the endearing mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 

gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other 

times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the 

mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and 

13 



194 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we 
''live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, 
the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of 
spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden 
pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing 
green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its 
cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite 
delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. 
But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled 
of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted 
snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. 
The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short 
gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circum- 
scribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from 
rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for 
the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more 
concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. 
We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, 
and are brought more closely together by dependence on 
each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; 
and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving- 
kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; 
and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure ele- 
ment of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the 
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial sum- 
mer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each 
countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the 
honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and 
more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more 
sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside? and as 
the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, 
claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and 
rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful 
than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with 
which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and 
the scene of domestic hilarity? 



CHRISTMAS 195 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond 
of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt 
the stillness of country life; arid they were, in former days, 
particularly observant of the religious and social rites of 
Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details 
which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, 
the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth 
and good-fellowship, with which this festival was cele- 
brated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock 
every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer to- 
gether, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow 
of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor- 
houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, 
and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hos- 
pitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive 
season with green decorations of bay and holly — the 
cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, invit- 
ing the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gos- 
sip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long 
evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas 
tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement 
is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday cus- 
toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and 
spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has 
worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but 
certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games 
and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, 
and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become mat- 
ters of speculation and dispute among commentators. 
They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when 
men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously; 
times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry 
with its richest materials, and the drama with its most 
attractive variety of characters and manners. The world 
has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, 
and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a 



196 • THE SKETCH-BOOK 

broader, but a shallower stream; and has forsaken many 
of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly 
through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has 
acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has 
lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred 
feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary 
customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospital- 
ities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the 
baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they 
were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy 
hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, 
but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay 
drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive hon- 
ors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement 
in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling com- 
pletely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every 
English bosom. The preparations making on every side 
for the social board that is again to unite friends and 
kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, 
those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; 
the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, 
emblems of peace and gladness ; all these have the most 
pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kind- 
ling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the 
Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the 
midwatches of a winter night with the effect of perfect 
harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that 
still and solemn hour, ''when deep sleep falleth upon man," 
I have listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting 
them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost 
fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing 
peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon 
by these moral influences, turns every thing to melody 
and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard some- 
times in the profound repose of the country, 'Helling 
the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought 



CHRISTMAS 197 

by the common people to announce the approach of this 
sacred festival. 

"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this 
period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, 
the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kind- 
ling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the 
genial flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 
beyond the sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- 
mates the drooping spirit; as the Arabian breeze will 
sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the 
weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for 
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw 
open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome 
me at the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season 
beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those 
around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light 
of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, 
and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror trans- 
mitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining 
benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from 
contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can 
sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all 
around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excite- 
ment and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial 
and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a 
merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE COACH 

Omne bene 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some general observa- 
tions on the Christmas festivities of England, and am 
tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christ- 
mas passed in the country; in perusing which I would 
most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the auster- 
ity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit 
which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement. 
In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode 
for a long distance in one of the pubhc coaches, on the day 
preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both 
inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, 
seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or 
friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also 
with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delica- 
cies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the 
coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the 
impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for 
my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health 
and manly spirit which I have observed in the children 
of this country. They were returning home for the holi- 
days in high glee, and promising themselves a world of 
enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans 



THE STAGE COACH 199 

of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were 
to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from 
the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. 
They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the 
family and household, down to the very cat and dog; and 
of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the 
presents with which their pockets were crammed; but 
the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with 
the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found 
to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of 
more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. 
How he could trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps 
as he would take — there was not a hedge in the whole 
country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, 
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him 
one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could 
not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and 
importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on 
one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck 
in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a person- 
age full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly 
so during this season, having so many commissions to 
execute in consequence of the great interchange of pres- 
ents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable 
to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that may 
serve as a general representation of this very numerous 
and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a 
manner,* a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and 
prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever 
an English stage coachman may be seen, he cannot be 
mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding 
into every jpiBssel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimen- 
sions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk 
is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in 



200 'THE SKETCH-BOOK 

which he is buried Uke a cauliflower, the upper one reach- 
ing to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned 
hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, 
knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has 
in summer time a large bouquet of flowers in his button- 
hole; the present, most probably, of some enamored 
country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright 
color, striped, and his small clothes extend far below the 
knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach halfway 
up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision; 
he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; 
and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appear- 
ance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety 
of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. 
He enjoys great consequence and consideration along 
the road; has frequent conferences with the village house- 
wives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and 
dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding 
with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he 
arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws 
down the reins with something of an air, and abandons 
the cattle to the care of the hostler; his duty being merely 
to drive from one stage to another. When off the box, 
his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, 
and he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most 
absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by 
an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, 
and those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and 
taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs, 
for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kit- 
chen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look 
up to him as to an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; 
echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey 
lore; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and car- 
riage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat t« his back, 
thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks 
slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 



THE STAGE COACH 201 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity 
that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheer- 
fulness in every countenance throughout the journey. 
A stage coach, however, carries animation always with 
it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The 
horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a 
general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; 
some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and 
in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the 
group that accompanies them. In the mean time, the 
coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. 
Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes 
jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public 
house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of 
sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing 
housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic 
admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every 
one runs to the window, and you have glances on every 
side of fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls. 
At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and 
wise men, who take their stations there for the important 
purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is 
generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the 
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The 
smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the ve- 
hicle whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their 
ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and 
the sooty spectre, in brown paper cap, laboring at the 
bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits 
the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while 
he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous 
gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a 
more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed 
to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. 
Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in 
brisk circulation in the villages; the grocers', butchers' 
and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. 



202 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting 
their dwelHngs in order; and the glossy branches of holly, 
with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the 
windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's 
account of Christmas preparations: — '^Now capons and 
hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and 
mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a multitude of 
people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and 
spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. 
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must 
dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by 
the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and 
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on 
Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and 
ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice 
and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack 
wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by a 
shout from my little travelling companions. They had 
been looking out of the coach windows for the last few 
miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they ap- 
proached home, and now there was a general burst of joy 
— ''There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's 
Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their 
hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking ser- 
vant in livery, waiting for them; he was accompanied by 
a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Ban- 
tam, a little old rat of k pony, with a shaggy mane and 
long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road- 
side, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little 
fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged 
the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But 
Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to 
mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John 
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest 
should ride first. 



THE STAGE COACH 203 

Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog 
bounding and barking before him, and the others holding 
John's hands; both talking at once, and overpowering 
him with questions about home, and with school anec- 
dotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do 
not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated; 
for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had 
neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the 
summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments 
afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our 
route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat 
country seat. I could just distinguish the forms ^of a 
lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my 
little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, troop- 
ing along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a 
grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great 
gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing 
kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and 
admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of conven- 
ience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of 
an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round 
with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated 
here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, 
and flitches of bacon, were suspended from the ceiling; a 
smoke- jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fire- 
place, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured 
deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a 
cold round of beef, and other hearty viands upon it, over 
which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting 
guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to 
attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and 
gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles 
beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying back- 
wards and forwards under the directions of a fresh, 
bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment 



204 THE SKETCH BOOK 

to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, 
with the group round the fire. The scene completely 
realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of 
mid-winter: 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 

To reverence Winter's silver hair; 

A handsome hostess, merry host, 

A pot of ale now and a toast. 

Tobacco and a good coal fire, 

Are things this season doth require.^ 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove 
up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by 
the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a counte- 
nance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get 
a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not 
mistaken; it was Frank Braceb ridge, a sprightly good- 
humored young fellow, with whom I had once travelled 
on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always 
brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, 
odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all 
these in a transient interview at an inn was impossible; 
and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely 
making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to 
which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay 
at a few miles distance. ''It is better than eating a soli- 
tary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, ''and I can 
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old- 
fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must 
confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity 
and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impa- 
tient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with 
his invitation: the chaise drove up to the door, and in a 
few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of 
the Bracebridges. 

1 Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
From the night-mare and the gobUn, 
That is hight good fellow Robin; 

Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fariec, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 
From curfew time 
To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; 
our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the 
postboy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the 
time his horses were on a gallop. *'He knows where he 
is going/' said my companion, laughing, ''and is eager to 
arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer 
of the servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a 
bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon 
keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is 
a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with 
nowadays in its purity, the old English country gentle- 
man; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time 
in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, 
that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are 
almost polished away. My father, however, from early 
years, took honest Peacham^ for his text-book, instead of 
Chesterfield; he determined in his own mind, that there 
was no condition more truly honorable and enviable than 
that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and 

1 Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 



206 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. He 
is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural 
games and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the 
writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the 
subject. Indeed his favorite range of reading is among 
the authors who flourished at least two centuries since; 
who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true Eng- 
lishmen than any of their successors. He even regrets 
sometimes that he had not been born a few centuries 
earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar 
manners and customs. As he lives at some distance 
from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
without any rival gentry near him, he has that most 
enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportu- 
nity of indulging the bent of his own humor without moles- 
tation. Being representative of the oldest family in the 
neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his 
tenants, he is much looked up to,- and, in general, is known 
simply by the appellation of 'The Squire;' a title which 
has been accorded to the head of the family since time 
immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints 
about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any 
eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a 
heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully 
wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge 
square columns that supported the gate were surmounted 
by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's 
lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried 
in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the dis- 
tant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house 
seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately ap- 
peared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon 
her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, dressed 
very much in the antique taste, with a neat kerchief and 



CHRISTMAS EVE 207 

stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap 
of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying forth, with 
many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young 
master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house 
keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall; they could 
not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song 
and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- 
tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road 
wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked 
branches of which the moon glittered, as she rolled 
through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn be- 
yond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which 
here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a 
frosty crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin 
transparent vapor, stealing up from the low grounds and 
threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport: — 
''How often," said he, "have I scampered up this ave- 
nue, on returning home on school vacations! How often 
have I played under these trees when a boy! I feel a 
degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those 
who have cherished us in childhood. My father was al- 
ways scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having us 
around him on family festivals. He used to direct and 
superintend our games with the strictness that some 
parents do the studies of their children. He was very 
particular that we should play the old English games ac- 
cording to their original form; and consulted old books 
for precedent and authority for every 'merrie disport;' 
yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. 
It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his 
children feel that home was the happiest place in the 
world; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of 
the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of 
^11 sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, 



208 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the 
porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bound- 
ing, open-mouthed, across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!" 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, 
the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a 
moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by 
the caresses of the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family man- 
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by 
the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building, of 
some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of 
different periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, 
with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and 
overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the 
small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the 
moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French 
taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired 
and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, 
who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. 
The grounds about the house were laid out in the old 
formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrub- 
beries, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, 
ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet 
of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely 
careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original 
state. He admired this fashion in gardening; it had an 
air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting 
good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature 
in modern gardening had sprung up with modern repub- 
Hcan notions, but did not suit a monarchical government; 
it smacked of the levelling system — I could not help 
smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, 
though I expressed some apprehension that I should find 
the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. — Frank 



CHRISTMAS EVE 209 

assured me, however, that it was almost the only instance 
in which he had ever heard his father meddle w^ith poli- 
tics; and he believed that he had got this notion from a 
member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with 
him. The squire was glad of any argument to defend 
his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces, which had been 
occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of 
music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one 
end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed 
from the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was 
permitted, and even encouraged by the squire, through- 
out the twelve days of Christmas, provided every thing 
was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were 
kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild 
mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and 
snap dragon: the Yule clog and Christmas candle were 
regularl}^ burnt, and the mistletoe, with its w^hite berries, 
hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty house- 
maids. 1 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we 
had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves 
heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire came 
out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons; 
one a young officer in the army, home on leave of absence; 
the other an Oxonian, just from the university. The 
squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, with 
silver hair curling lightly round an open florid counte- 
nance; in which the physiognomist, with the advantage, 
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a 
singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate: as the 
evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit 
us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at 

1 The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at 
Christmas; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls 
under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the 
berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. 
14 



210 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

once to the company, which was assembled in a large 
old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches 
of a numerous family connection, where there were the 
usuq.1 proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable 
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming coun- 
try cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed 
boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied; 
some at a round game of cards; others conversing around 
the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a group of the 
young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more 
tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry 
game; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, 
and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces of a 
troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through 
a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a 
peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between 
young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan 
the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had 
certainly been in old times, and the squire had evidently 
endeavored to restore it to something of its primitive 
state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended 
a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, 
and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and 
lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were in- 
serted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which 
to suspend hats, whips, and spurs; and in the corners of 
the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and 
other sporting implements. The furniture was of the 
cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some 
articles of modern convenience had been added, and the 
oaken floor had been carpeted; so that the whole pre- 
sented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- 
ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst 
of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and 
sending forth a vast volume of light and heat: this I 
understood was the Yule clog, which the squire was par- 



CHRISTMAS EVE 211 

ticular in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas 
eve, according to ancient custom. ^ 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in 
his hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of 
his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a 
system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. 
Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly 
up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and 
stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness and 
protection. There is an emanation from the heart in 
genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is 
immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his 
ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the com- 
fortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found 
myself as much at home as if I had been one of the 
family. 

1 The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid 
in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. 
While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of 
tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but 
in the cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great 
wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn all night; if it went out, it 
was considered a sign of ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: — 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes. 
The Christmas log to the firing; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in 
England, particularly in the north, and there are several supersti- 
tions connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person 
comes to the house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is 
considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule clog 
is carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



212 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It 
was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of 
which shone with wax, and around which were several 
family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides 
the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called 
Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on 
a highly-polished beaufet among the family plate. The 
table was abundantly spread with substantial fare; but 
the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of 
wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a stand- 
ing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the 
retinue of the feast; and finding him to be perfectly or- 
thodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my predilec- 
tion, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we 
usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by 
the humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Brace- 
Iwidge always addressed with the quaint appellation of 
Master Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, with the 
air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like 
the bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the small- 
pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten 
leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and 
vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expres- 
sion that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of 
the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and inuendoes 
with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by harping 
upon old themes; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of 
the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It 
seemed to be his great delight during supper to keep a 
young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled laugh- 
ter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, 
who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger 
part of company, who laughed at every thing he said or 
did, and at every turn of his countenance. I could not 
wonder at it; for he must have been a miracle of accom- 
plishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and 



CHRISTMAS EVE 213 

Judy; make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance 
of a burnt cork and pocket-handkerchief; and cut an 
orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the young 
folks were ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his 
wants. He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, 
and sometimes another quite remote; as is often the case 
with gentlemen of extensive connections and small for- 
tunes in England. He had a chirping buoyant disposi- 
tion, always enjoying the present moment; and his fre- 
quent change of scene and company prevented his ac- 
quiring those rusty unaccommodating habits, with which 
old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a 
complete family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, 
history, and intermarriages of the whole house of Brace- 
bridge, which made him a great favorite with the old 
folks; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superan- 
nuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually consid- 
ered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels 
among the children; so that there was not a more popu- 
lar being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon 
Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost en- 
tirely with the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularl}^ delighted by jumping with his 
humor in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of 
an old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a 
specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner was 
supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages 
peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon 
was called on for a good old Christmas song. He be- 
thought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle 
of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, ex- 
cepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the 
notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old 
ditty. 



214 THE SKETCH-BOOK j 

Now Christmas is come, ■ 

Let us beat up the drum, ' 

And call all our neighbors together, ' 

And when they appear, ; 

Let us make them such cheer, j 

As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. i 

i 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an j 
old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where j 
he had been strumming all the evening, and to all appear- j 
ance comforting himself with some of the squire's home- ; 
brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the I 
establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident of the ! 
village, was oftener to be found in the squire's kitchen i 
than his own home, the old gentleman being fond of the \ 
sound of ''harp in hall." ; 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry ' 
one; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire j 
himself figured down several couple with a partner, with j 
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for ': 
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be i 
a kind of connecting link between the old times and the i 
new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of i 
his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his] 
dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel; 
and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school; j 
but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romp- ! 
ing girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, ; 
kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his ' 
sober attempts at elegance: — such are the ill-assorted ; 
matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately i 
prone! i 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one : 
of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thou- 
sand little knaveries with impunity: he was full of prac- 
tical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and ■ 
cousins; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a uni- 
versal favorite among the women. The most interesting ; 
couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward of ■ 



CHRISTMAS EVE 215 

the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From 
several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of 
the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness grow- 
ing up between them; and, indeed, the young soldier was 
just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, 
slender, and handsome, and, like most young British 
officers of late years, had picked up various small accom- 
plishments on the continent — he could talk French and 
Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably— dance 
divinely; but, above all, he had been wounded at Water- 
loo: — what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and ro- 
mance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfec- 
tion! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, 
and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an atti- 
tude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, 
began the little French air of the Troubadour. The 
squire, however, exclaimed against having any thing on 
Christmas eve but good old English; upon which the young 
minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an 
effort of memory, struck into another strain, and, with a 
charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's ''Night-Piece 
to Julia." 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose Uttle eyes glow 
Like the sparke of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 



216 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

I Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 

Thus, thus to come unto me, 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in 
compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner 
was called; she, however, was certainly unconscious of 
any such application, for she never looked at the singer, 
but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was 
suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a 
gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless 
caused by the exercise of the dance; indeed, so great was 
her indifference, that she amused herself with plucking 
to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by 
the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins 
on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed 
through the hall, on my way to my chamber, the dying 
embers of the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and 
had it not been the season when "no spirit dares stir 
abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal from 
my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might 
not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the 
ponderous furniture of which might have been fabri- 
cated in the days of the giants. The room was panelled 
with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and 
grotesque faces were strangely intermingled; and a row 
of black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from 
the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, 
with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow 
window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of 
music seemed to break forth in the air just below the 
window. I listened, and found it proceeded from a band, 
which I concluded to be the waits from some neighbor- 
ing village. They went round the house, playing under 



CHRISTMAS EVE 217 ' 

\ 

the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them j 

more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper ; 

part of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated l 

apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more j 

soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and *. 
moonlight. I listened and listened — they became more 
tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away, 
my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

4: 4: H: 4: 4: H: H: 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and 
nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber con- 
vinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on my 
pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside 
of the door, and a whispering consultation. Presently a 
choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas 
carol, the burden of which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- 
denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy 
groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a 
boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely 
as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house^ 
and singing at every chamber door; but my sudden ap- 
pearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They 
remained for a moment playing on their lips with their 
fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance frord 



CHRISTMAS DAY 219 

under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they 
scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gal- 
lery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy 
feehngs in this strong-hold of old-fashioned hospitality. 
The window of my chamber looked out upon what in 
summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There 
was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, 
and a track of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, 
and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, 
with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over 
it; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief against 
the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with 
evergreens, according to the English custom, which would 
have given almost an appearance of summer; but the 
morning was extremely frosty; the light vapor of the 
preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and 
covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its 
fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun 
had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A 
robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung 
its clusters of red berries just before my window, was 
basking himself .in the sunshine, and piping a few quer- 
ulous notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories 
of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a 
Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared 
to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way 
to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I 
found the principal part of the family already assembled 
in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, 
and large prayer books; the servants were seated on 
benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from a 
desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as 
clerk, and made the responses; and I must do him the 
justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity 
and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which 



220 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of 
his favorite author, Herrick; and it had been adapted to 
an old church melody by Master Simon. As there were 
several good voices among the household, the effect was 
extremely pleasing; but I was particularly gratified by 
the exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful 
feeling, with which the worthy squire delivered one 
stanza; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of 
all the bounds of time and tune: 

" Tis thou that crown 'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltlesse mirth, 
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink: 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land: 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning service 
was read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout 
the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member 
of the family. It was once almost universally the case 
at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it 
is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into 
neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the 
order and serenity prevalent in those households, where 
the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in 
the morning gives, as it were, the keynote to every tem- 
per for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated 
true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamen- 
tations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which 
he censured as among the causes of modern effeminacy 
and weak nerves, and the decline of old English hearti- 
ness; and though he admitted them to his table to suit 
the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of 
cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with 



CHRISTMAS DAY 221 

Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as 
he was called by every body but the squire. We were 
escorted by a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed 
loungers about the establishment; from the frisking span- 
iel to the steady old stag-hound; the last of which was of 
a race that had been in the family time out of mind: 
they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to 
Master Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their 
gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a small 
switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not 
but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal 
terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew- 
trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. 
There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks 
about the place, and I was making some remarks upon 
what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under 
a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phrase- 
ology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to 
the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I 
must say a muster of peacocks. '^In the same way," 
added he, with a slight air of pedantry, ''we say a flight 
of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of 
wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes^ or a building of rooks." 
He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony 
Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird ''both under- 
standing and glory; for, being praised, he will presently 
set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you 
may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the 
fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and 
hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- 
tion on so whimsical a subject; but I found that the pea- 
cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall; for 
Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great 
favorities with his father, who was extremely careful to 
keep up the breed; partly because they belonged to chiv- 



222 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

airy, and were in great request at the stately banquets of 
the olden time; and partly because they had a pomp and 
magnificence about them, highly becoming an old family 
mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an 
air of greater state and dignity than a peacock perched 
upon an antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, 
who were to perform some music of his selection. There 
was something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow 
of animal spirits of the little man; and I confess I had 
been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from au- 
thors who certainly were not in the range of every-day 
reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank 
Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's 
whole stock of erudition was confined to some half a dozen 
old authors, which the squire had put into his hands, and 
which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious 
fit; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter 
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's ^' Book of Hus- 
bandry;" Markham's "Country Contentments;" the 
'' Tretyse of Hunting, " by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; 
Izaac Walton's " Angler," and two or three more such 
ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard authori- 
ties; and, like all men who know but a few books, he 
looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted 
them on all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly 
picked out of old books in the squire's library, and adapted 
to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits of 
the last century. His practical application of scraps of 
literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as 
a prodigy of book knowledge by all the grooms, hunts- 
men, and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of 
the village bell, and I was told that, the squire was a little 
particular in having his household at church on a Christ- 
mas morning; considering it a day of pouring out of 
thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed, 



CHRISTMAS DAY 223 

"At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 

"If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank 
Bracebridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin 
Simon's musical achievements. As the church is desti- 
tute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village 
amateurs, and established a musical club for their im- 
provement; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my 
father's pack of hounds, according to the directions of 
Jervaise Markham, in his '^ Country Contentments "; for 
the bass he has sought out all the ^ deep, solemn mouths', 
and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing mouths,' among the 
country bumpkins; and for 'sweet mouths,' he has culled 
with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neigh- 
borhood; though these last, he affirms, are the most diffi- 
cult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being ex- 
ceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 
accident.'' 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine 
and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, 
which was a very old building of gray stone, and stood 
near a village, about half a mile from the park gate. 
Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed 
coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly 
matted with a yew-tree, that had been trained against 
its walls, through the dense foliage of which apertures 
had been formed to admit light into the small antique 
lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson 
issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a 
rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson 
was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled 
wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so 
that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like 
a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with 
great skirts, and pockets that would have held the church 



224 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Bible and prayer book: and his small legs seemed still 
smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated 
with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson 
had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had re- 
ceived this living shortly after the latter had come to his 
estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and 
would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman char- 
acter. The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde 
were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in his researches 
after such old English writers as have fallen into oblivion 
from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the 
notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investi- 
gations into the festive rites and holiday customs of for- 
mer times; and had been as jealous in the inquiry as if he 
had been a boon companion; but it was merely with that . 
plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament 
follow up any track of study, merely because it is denomi- 
nated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether 
it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and 
obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old 
volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been re- 
flected in his countenance; which, if the face be indeed an 
index of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of 
black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson 
rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistle- 
toe among the greens with which the church was deco- 
rated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned 
by having been used by the Druids in their mystic cere- 
monies; and though it might be innocently employed in 
the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had 
been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, 
and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was 
he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to 
strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his 
taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon the 
service of the day. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 225 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple; 
on the walls were several mural monuments of the Brace- 
bridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient 
workmanship, on which lay the efhgy of a warrior in 
armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a 
crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had 
signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose 
picture hung over the fireplace in the hall.- 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly; evincing that kind 
of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentle- 
man of the old school, and a man of old family connec- 
tions. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of a 
folio prayer-book with something of a flourish; possibly 
to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of 
his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. But 
he was evidently most solicitous about the musical part 
of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, 
and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the 
other, among which I particularly noticed that of the 
village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead 
and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to 
have blown his face to a point; and there was another, a 
short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, 
so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, 
like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty 
faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of 
a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint; but the 
gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like old 
Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as several 
had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of 
odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs 
we sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the 
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then 
15 



226 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with 
prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keen- 
est fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial 
was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged 
by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very 
outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was 
in a fever; every thing went on lamely and irregularly 
until they came to a chorus beginning ''Now let us sing 
with one accord,'' which seemed to be a signal for parting 
company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted 
for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon 
as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn 
spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; 
who happened to stand a little apart, and, being wrapped 
up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wrig- 
gling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a 
nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites 
and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observ- 
ing it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of re- 
joicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions by the 
earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by the 
authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. 
Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints 
and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I 
was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a 
mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one 
present seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found that 
the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend 
with; having, in the course of his researches on the sub- 
ject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the sec- 
tarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans 
made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the 
church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the 
land by proclamation of Parliament. ^ The worthy par- 

1 From the Flying Eagle, a small Gazette, published December 



CHRISTMAS DAY 227 

son lived but with times past, and knew but little of the 
present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to 
him as the gazettes of the day; while the era of the Revo- 
lution was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly 
two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution of 
poor mince pie throughout the land; when plum porridge 
was denounced as ^'mere popery," and roast-beef as anti- 
christian; and that Christmas had been brought in again 
triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of 
his contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he 
had to combat; he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne 
and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round 
Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and con- 
cluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and 
affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs of 
their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful 
anniversary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently 
with more immediate effects; for on leaving the church 
the congregation seemed one and all possessed with the 
gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. 
The elder folks gathered in knots in the church-yard, 
greeting and shaking hands; and the children ran about 



24th, 1652 — "The House spent much time this day about the busi- 
ness of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, 
were presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, 
grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17; and 
in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 
1; Rev. i. 10; Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11; Mark xv. 8; Psalm 
Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and 
those Massemongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In conse- 
quence of which Parliament spent some time in consultation about 
the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and 
resolved to sit on the following day, which was commonly called 
Christmas day." 



228 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

crying Ule! Ule! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,^ 
which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had 
been handed down from days of yore. The villagers 
doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, giving him 
the good wishes of the season with every appearance of 
heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, 
to take something to keep out the cold of the weather; 
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, 
which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, 
the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christ- 
mas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed 
with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a 
rising ground which commanded something of a prospect, 
the sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our 
ears: the squire paused for a few moments, and looked 
around with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty 
of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. 
Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun 
in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to 
melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern 
declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns 
an English landscape even in midwinter. Large tracts 
of smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness 
of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, 
on which the broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill of 
cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping 
grass; and sent up slight exhalations to contribute to the 
thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. 
There was something truly cheering in this triumph of 
warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter; 
it was, as the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas 
hospitality, breaking through the chills of ceremony and 
selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow. He 
pointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer 

1 "Ule! Ule! 

Three puddings in a pule; 
Crack nuts and cry ule!" 



CHRISTMAS DAY 229 

reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses, 
and low thatched cottages. "I love," said he, ''to see 
this day well kept by rich and poor; it is a great thing to 
have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of 
being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it 
were, the world all thrown open to you; and I am almost 
disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on 
every churlish enemy to this honest festival, — 

"Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of 
the games and amusements which were once prevalent 
at this season among the lower orders, and countenanced 
by the higher; when the old halls of the castle, and manor- 
houses were thrown open at daylight; when the tables 
were covered with brawn, and beef, and humming ale; 
when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and 
when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and make 
merry. 1 ''Our old games and local customs," said he, 
"had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his 
home, and the promotion of them by the gentry made 
him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and 
kinder, and better, and I can truly say, with one of our 
old poets: 

"I like them well — the curious preciseness 

And all-pretended gravity of those 

That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 

Have thrust away much ancient honesty." 

1 "An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, ^. e., on 
Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors 
enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the 
black-jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, 
and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be 
boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden 
(i. e., the cook) by the arms^and run her round the market-place till 
she is shamed of her laziness." — Round about our Sea-Coal Fire. 



230 ^^^ SKETCH-BOOK 

''The nation," continued he, ''is altered; we have al- 
most lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have 
broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think 
their interests are separate. They have become too 
knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale- 
house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode 
to keep them in good humor in these hard times would be 
for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their 
estates, mingle more among the country people, and set 
the merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating pub- 
he discontent: and, indeed, he had once attempted to put 
his doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept 
open house during the holidays in the old style. The 
country people, however, did not understand how to play 
their parts in the scene of hospitality; many uncouth 
circumstances occurred; the manor was overrun by all 
the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn 
into the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers 
could get rid of in a year. Since then, he had contented 
himself with inviting the decent part of the neighboring 
peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, and with 
distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, 
that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music 
was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, 
without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with rib- 
bons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in 
their hands, was seen advancing up the avenue, followed 
by a large number of villagers and peasantry. They 
stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up 
a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and in- 
tricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their 
clubs together, keeping exact time to the music; while 
one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of 
which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the 
skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with 
many antic gesticulations. 



CHRISTMAS DA Y 231 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great 
interest and dehght, and gave me a full account of its 
origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans 
held possession of the island; plainly proving that this 
was a lineal descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. 
''It was now," he said, ''nearly extinct, but he had acci- 
dentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and 
had encouraged its revival; though, to tell the truth, it 
was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, 
and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was 
entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. 
The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was 
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and 
regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the younger 
peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their 
mouths, when the squire's back was turned, making some- 
thing of a grimace, and giving each other the wink; but 
the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, 
and were exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, 
however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied 
occupations and amusements had made him well known 
throughout the neighborhood. He was a visitor at 
every farmhouse and cottage; gossiped with the farmers 
and their wives; romped with their daughters; and, like 
that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, tolled 
the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before 
good cheer and affability. There is something genuine 
and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when 
it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above 
them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, 
and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by 
a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent more than 
oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the merri- 
ment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, 
particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- 
faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit 



232 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

of the village; for I observed all his companions to wait 
with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratui- 
tous laugh before they could well understand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- 
ment : as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard 
the sound of music in a small court, and looking through 
a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of wan- 
dering musicians, with pandean pipes and tambourine; 
a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a 
smart country lad, while several of the other servants were 
looking on. In the midst of her sport the girl caught a 
glimpse of my face at the window, and, coloring up, ran 
off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers' Juvenilia. 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant 
thwacking sound, which he informed me was a signal for 
the serving up of the dinner. The squire kept up old 
customs in kitchen as well as hall; and the rolling-pin, 
struck upon the dresser by the cook, summoned the ser- 
vants to carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock 'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey; 
, Each serving man, with dish in hand, 

March 'd boldly up, like our train band. 

Presented, and away.i 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing 
crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the 
1 Sir John Suckling. 



234 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and 
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great 
picture of the crusader and his white horse had been 
profusely decorated with greens for the occasion; and 
holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the hel- 
met and weapons on the opposite wall, which I under- 
stood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, 
by the by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of 
the painting and armor as having belonged to the crusader, 
they certainly having the stamp of more recent days; 
but I was told that the painting had been so considered 
time out of mind; and that, as to the armor, it had been 
found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present sit- 
uation by the squire, who at once determined it to be the 
armor of the family hero; and as he was absolute author- 
ity on all such subjects in his own household, the matter 
had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was 
set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a 
display of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) 
with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple: 
''flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers;" 
the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had 
gradually accumulated through many generations of 
jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule 
candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude; 
other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole 
array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a 
stool beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument 
with a vast deal more power than melody. Never did 
Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious as- 
semblage of countenances; those who were not handsome 
were, at least, happy; and happiness is a rare improver of 
your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old 
English family as well worth studying as a collection of 
Holbein's portraits or Albert Diirer's prints. There is 
much antiquarian lore to be acquired; much knowledge 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 235 

of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be 
from having continually before their eyes those rows of 
old family portraits, with which the mansions of this 
country are stocked; certain it is, that the quaint features 
of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these 
ancient lines; and I have traced an old family nose through 
a whole picture gallery, legitimately handed down from 
generation to generation, almost from the time of the 
Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed 
in the worthy company around me. Many of their faces 
had evidently originated in a Gothic age, and been merely 
copied by succeeding generations; and there was one 
little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with a high 
Roman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a 
great favorite of the squire's, being, as he said, a Brace- 
bridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his 
ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 
unceremonious days; but a long, courtly, well-worded one 
of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if 
something was expected; when suddenly the butler en- 
tered the hall with some degree of bustle: he was attended 
by a servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore 
a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, dec- 
orated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which 
was placed with great formality at the head of the table. 
The moment this pageant made its appearance, the harp- 
er struck up a flourish; at the conclusion of which the 
young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the squire, gave, 
with an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the 
first verse of which was as follows: 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merrily 

Qui estis in convivio. 



236 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen- 
tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of 
mine host; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a 
dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I 
gathered from the conversation of the squire and the 
parson, that it was meant to represent the bringing in of 
the boar's head; a dish formerly served up with much 
ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great 
tables, on Christmas day. ^'I hke the old custom," 
said the squire, ''not merely because it is stately and 
pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the col- 
lege at Oxford at which I was educated. When I hear 
the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I 
was young and gamesome — and the noble old college hall 
— and my fellow-students loitering about in their black 
gowns; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 
such associations, and who was always more taken up 
with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxon- 
ian's version of the carol; which he affirmed was different 
from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry per- 
severance of a commentator, to -give the college reading, 
accompanied by sundry annotations; addressing himself 
at first to the company at large; but finding their atten- 
tion gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, 
he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, 
until he concluded his remarks in an under voice, to a 
fat-headed old gentleman next him, who was silently 
engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey. ^ 

1 The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day 
is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored 
by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be 
acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and 
learned matters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck 'd with bays and rosemary; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 237 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- 
sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season 
of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted 
to ''ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; being, as he 
added, 'Hhe standard of old English hospitality, and a 
joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." There 
were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had 
evidently something traditional in their embellishments; 
but about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, 
I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently 
decorated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the 
tail of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable 
tract of the table. This, the squire confessed, with some 
little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock 
pie was certainly the most authentical; but there had 
been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, 
that he could not prevail upon himself to have one killed. ^ 

Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck 'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi A trio. 
Caput apri defero, 

etc., etc., etc. 

1 The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately enter- 
tainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which 
the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak 
richly gilt; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were 
served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant 
pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence 



238 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the 
other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which 
he was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble dis- 
tance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, 
however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his 
children and relatives; who, indeed, entered readily into 
the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their 
parts; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. 
I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with 
which the butler and other servants executed the duties 
assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old- 
fashioned look; having, for the most part, been brought 
up in the household, and grown into keeping with the 
antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord; and 
most probably looked upon all his whimsical regulations 
as the established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a 
huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, 
which he placed before the squire. Its appearance was 
hailed with acclamation; being the Wassail Bowl, so re- 
nowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had been 
prepared by the squire himself; for it was a beverage in 
the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided him- 
self: alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the 
comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, 
indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap 
within him; being composed of the richest and raciest 

came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, "by cock and 
pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; 
and Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extrava- 
gance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the 
gorgeous revels of the olden times: — 

" Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

Their thirty pounds butter 'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues; 

Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris; the carcases of three fat 
wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock.^' 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 239 

wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples 
bobbing about the surface.^ 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty- 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of 
a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming 
round the board, for every one to follow his example, 
according to the primitive style; pronouncing it ''the 
ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met 
together." 2 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 
emblem of Christmas joviaUty circulated, and was kissed 
rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master 
Simon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a 
boon companion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle. 

As it goes round about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

1 The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of 
wine; with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in this 
way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, 
and round the hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is 
also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth 
Night: 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 

With store of ale too; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

2 "The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each 
having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the 
Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then 
the chappell (chaplein) was to answer with a song." — Arch^.ologia. 



240 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.i 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon 
family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, 
however, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about 
some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a 
flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies; 
but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat- 
headed old gentleman next the parson, with the perse- 
vering assiduity of a slow hound; being one of those long- 
winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, 
are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At 
every pause in the general conversation, he renewed his 
bantering in pretty much the same terms; winking hard at 
me with both eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what 
he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed 
fond of being teased on the subject, as old bachelors are 
apt to be; and he took occasion to inform me, in an under 
tone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine 
woman, and drove her own curricle.. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 
hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in 
its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, 
yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and 
genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent 
being to diffuse pleasure around him; and how truly is a 
kind heart a fountain of gladness, making every thing in 
its vicinity to freshen into smiles! the joyous disposition 
of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious; he was 
happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy; 
and the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, 
in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

1 From Poor Robin's Almanac. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 241 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated; many good things were 
broached which had been thought of during dinner, but 
which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though 
I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit ut- 
tered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare 
wit produce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a 
mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for 
some stomachs; but honest good humor is the oil and 
wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial com- 
panionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small, 
and the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college 
pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 
been a sharer; though in looking at the latter, it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark 
anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap 
gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pic- 
tures of what men may be made by their different lots in 
life. The squire had left the university to live lustily 
on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of 
prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty 
and florid old age; whilst the poor parson, on the con- 
trary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, 
in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed 
to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glim- 
mering in the bottom of his soul; and as the squire hinted 
at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom 
they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman 
made an '^alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could de- 
cipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative 
of laughter; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old gen- 
tleman that took absolute offence at the imputed gallan- 
tries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew mer- 
rier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon 
was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with 
16 



242 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

dew; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he 
began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a 
long song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed 
me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work, 
entitled ''Cupid's Solicitor for Love," containing store of 
good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend 
me: the first verse was to this effect: 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of 
Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose; but he always 
stuck in the middle, every body recollecting the latter 
part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show 
the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down 
into a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one 
side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the 
drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation 
of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered 
with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given 
up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted 
to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master 
Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as 
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing 
the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy 
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the 
drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. 
I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master 
Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on 
all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, 
the Lord of Misrule, ^ was blinded in the midst of the hall. 

1 At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee 
was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merle disportes, and the 
like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good wor- 
shippe, were he spirituall or temporall. — Stowe. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 243 

The little beings were as busy about him as the mock 
fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts 
of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue- 
eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in 
beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock 
half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, 
was the chief tormentor; and, from the slyness with which 
Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed 
this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump 
shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a 
whit more blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- 
pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who 
was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the 
work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been 
brought from the library for his particular accommoda- 
tion. From this venerable piece of furniture, with which 
his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably 
accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the pop- 
ular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, 
with which he had become acquainted in the course of his 
antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think 
that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured 
with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a 
recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the coun- 
try, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with 
the marvellous and supernatural. He gave us several 
anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, 
concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the 
tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument 
of the kind in that part of the country, it had always 
been regarded with feelings of superstition by the good 
wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb 
and walk the rounds of the church-yard in stormy nights, 
particularly when it thundered; and one old woman, whose 
cottage bordered on the church-yard, had seen it through 
the windows of tke church, when the moon shone, slowly 
pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that 



244 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, 
or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state 
of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and 
jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept 
watch; and there was a story current of a sexton in old 
times, who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at 
night, but, just as he reached it, received a violent blow 
from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him 
senseless on the pavement. These tales were often 
laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, 
yet, when night came on, there were many of the stoutest 
unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the foot- 
path that led across the church-yard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the 
crusader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 
throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in 
the hall, was thought by the servants to have something 
supernatural about it; for they remarked that, in what- 
ever part of the hall you went, the ey-es of the warrior 
were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the 
lodge, who had been born and brought up in the family, 
and was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed, 
that in her young days she had often heard say, that 
on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds 
of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and walk 
abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come down 
from his picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, 
and so to the church to visit the tomb; on which occa- 
sion the church door most civilly swung open of itself; 
not that he needed it; for he rode through closed gates 
and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the 
dairy maids to pass between two bars of the great park 
gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much 
countenanced by the squire, who, though not supersti- 
tious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He 
listened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips 
with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 245 

favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He 
was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, 
and often lamented that he could not believe in them; 
for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind 
of fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, 
our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogene- 
ous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled some- 
thing like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar 
of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door 
suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping into the 
room, that might almost have been mistaken for the 
breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable 
spirit. Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties 
as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas 
mummery or masking; and having called in to his assis- 
tance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally 
ripe for any thing that should occasion romping and mer- 
riment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old 
housekeeper had been consulted; the antique clothes- 
presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up 
the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several 
generations; the younger part of the company had been 
privately convened from the parlor and hall, and the 
whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation 
of an antique mask.^ 

Master Simon led the van, as ''Ancient Christmas," 
quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had 
very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's 
petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a vil- 
lage steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the 
days of the Covenanters. From under this his nose 
curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that 

1 Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old 
times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid 
under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I 
strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from 
Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 



246 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was 
accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as ''Dame 
Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of a faded 
brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled 
shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a 
sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a 
gold tassel. ' • . 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, 
natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. 
The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, 
as ''Maid Marian." The rest of the train had been meta- 
morphosed in various ways; the girls trussed up in the 
finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and 
the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely 
clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed 
wigs, to represent the character of Roast Beef, Plum 
Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient mask- 
ings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, 
in the appropriate character of Misrule; and I observed 
that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his 
wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, 
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of 
uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself 
with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient 
Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though 
giggling. Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of 
all the characters, which from its medley of costumes, 
seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join in the sport. Different 
centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left; 
the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and 
the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, 
through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, 
and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple 
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rub- 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 247 

bing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson 
said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing 
most authentically on the ancient and stately dance at 
the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived the min- 
uet to be derived. ^ For my part, I was in a continual 
excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent 
gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild- 
eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out 
from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age 
throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the 
freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest 
in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting 
customs were posting fast into obhvion, and that this was, 
perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole 
of them was still punctiliously observed. There was a 
quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it 
a peculiar zest: it was suited to the time and place; and 
as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and 
wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long 
departed years. ^ 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols; it is time 
for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the 
questions asked by my graver readers, '^To what purpose 
is all this — how is the world to be made wiser by this 
talk?" Alas! is there not wisdom enough extant for the 

1 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from 
pavo, a peacock, says, "It is a grave and majestic dance; the method 
of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and 
swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in 
their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the mo- 
tion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — History of 
Music. 

2 At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of 
an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some 
as out of date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of wit- 
nessing almost all the customs above described, existing in unex- 
pected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he 
passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some notice 
of them in the author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



248 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

instruction of the world? And if not, are there not thou- 
sands of abler pens laboring for its improvement? — It is 
so much pleasanter to please than to instruct — to play 
the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my 
sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of 
others? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil 
is in my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any 
lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle 
from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one 
moment of sorrow; if I can now and then penetrate 
through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a 
benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader 
more in good humor with his fellow beings and himself, 
surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in 
vain. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 

1 do walk 

Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealing to set the town o' fire; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of ex- 
ploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These 
are principally to be found in the depths of the city, swal- 
lowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and 
mortar; but deriving poetical and romantic interest from 
the commonplace prosaic world around them. I was 
struck with an instance of the kind in the course of a re- 
cent summer ramble into the city; for the city is only to 
be explored to advantage in summer time, when free from 
the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. I had 
been buffeting for some time against the current of popula- 
tion setting through Fleet-street. The warm weather 
had unstrung my nerves, and made me sensitive to every 
jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh was 
weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor 
with the bustling busy throng through which I had to 
struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore my way 
through the crowd, plunged into a by lane, and after pass- 
ing through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged 
into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot in the cen- 
tre, overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and 
green by a fountain with its sparkling jet of water. A 
student with book in hand was seated on a stone bench, 



250 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

partly reading, partly meditating on the movements of 
two or three trim nursery maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon an 
oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By de- 
grees the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my 
nerves and refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, 
and came, hard by, to a very ancient chapel, with a low- 
browed Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. 
The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted from 
above. Around were monumental tombs of ancient 
date, on which were extended the marble effigies of war- 
riors in armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed 
upon the breast; others grasped the pommel of the sword, 
menacing hostility even in the tomb! — while the crossed 
legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had 
been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic; and 
I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of 
the world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the high- 
way of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among 
these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and 
forgetfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered 
another of these relics of a "foregone world" locked up 
in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some 
time through dull monotonous streets, destitute of any 
thing to strike the eye or excite the imagination, when 
I beheld before me a Gothic gateway of mouldering an- 
tiquity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle forming 
the court-yard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of 
which stood invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiq- 
uity hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. 
Meeting no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, 
I continued on until I found myself in a great hall, with a 
lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic archi- 
tecture. At one end of the hall was an enormous fire- 



LONDON ANTIQUES 251 

place, with wooden settles on each side; at the other end 
was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above 
which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a 
long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet 
and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, 
that I had not met with a human being since I had passed 
the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a 
recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad 
flood of yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by tints 
from panes of colored glass; while an open casement let in 
the soft summer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, 
and my arm on an old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of 
reverie about what might have been the ancient uses of 
this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic origin; 
perhaps one of those collegiate establishments built of 
yore for the promotion of learning, where the patient 
monk, in the ample solitude of the cloister, added page to 
page and volume to volume, emulating in the produc- 
tions of his brain the magnitude of the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled 
door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, 
and a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black 
cloaks, came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner 
through the hall, without uttering a word, each turning 
a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing through 
a door at the lower end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance; their 
black cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style 
of this most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if 
the ghosts of the departed years, about which I had been 
musing, were passing in review before me. Pleasing my- 
self with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, 
to explore what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, 
existing in the very centre of substantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior 
courts, and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the 



252 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

main edifice had many additions and dependencies, built 
at various times and in various styles; in one open space 
a number of boys, who evidently belonged to the estab- 
lishment, were at their sports; but everywhere I observed 
those mysterious old gray men in black mantles, some- 
times sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups: 
they appeared to be the pervading genii of the place. I 
now called to mind what I had read of certain colleges in 
old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necromancy, 
and other forbidden and magical sciences were taught. 
Was this an establishment of the kind, and were these 
black-cloaked old men really professors of the black art? 

These surmises Vv^ere passing through my mind as my 
eye glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of 
strange and uncouth objects; implements of savage war- 
fare; strange idols ahd stuffed alligators; bottled serpents 
and monsters decorated the mantelpiece; while on the 
high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human 
skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic 
chamber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necro- 
mancer, when I was startled at beholding a human coun- 
tenance staring at me from a dusky corner." It was that 
of a small, shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright 
eyes, and gray wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted 
whether it were not a mummy curiously preserved, but 
it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It was another of 
these black-cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint 
physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sin- 
ister objects by which he was surrounded, I began to per- 
suade myself that I had come upon the arch mago, 
who ruled over this magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited 
me to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for 
how did I know whether a wave of his wand might not 
metamorphose me into some strange monster or conjure 
me into one of the bottles on his mantelpiece? He 
proved, however, to be any thing but a conjuror, and his 



LONDON ANTIQUES 253 

simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery 
with which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its 
no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of 
an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and de- 
cayed householders, with which was connected a school 
for a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards 
of two centuries since on an old monastic establishment, 
and retained somewhat of the conventual air and char- 
acter. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles 
who had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had 
elevated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners re- 
turning from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I 
had made the arch magician, had been for six years a 
resident of the place, and had decorated this final nestling- 
place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up in 
the course of his life. According to his own account he 
had been somewhat of a traveller; having been once in 
France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He 
regretted not having visited the latter country, ''as then 
he might have said he had been there." — He was evi- 
dently a traveller of the simplest kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions; keeping aloof, 
as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His 
chief associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and 
Greek, of both which languages Hallum was profoundly 
ignorant; and a broken-down gentleman who had run 
through a fortune of forty thousand pounds left him by 
his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage por- 
tion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an 
indubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit 
to be able to squander such enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into 
which I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called 
the Charter House, originally the Chartreuse. It was 
founded in 1611, on the remains of an ancient convent, 



254 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble charities 
set on foot by individual munificence, and kept up with 
the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times amidst the 
modern changes and innovations of London. Here eighty 
broken-down men, who have seen better days, are pro- 
vided, in their old age, with food, clothing, fuel, and a 
yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine to- 
gether as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been 
the refectory of the original convent. Attached to the 
establishment is a school for forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, 
speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed pension- 
ers, says, ''They are not to intermeddle with any business 
touching the affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to 
the service of God, and take thankfully what is provided 
for them, without muttering, murmuring, or grudging. 
None to wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or 
colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like 
or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital men 
to wear." ''And in truth," adds Stow, "happy are they 
that are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world, 
and fixed in so good a place as these old men are; having 
nothing to care for, but the good of their souls, to serve 
God and to five in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested by 
the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observa- 
tion, and who may wish to know a little more about the 
mysteries of London, I subjoin a modicum of local his- 
tory, put into my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman 
in a small brown wig and a snuff-colored coat, with whom 
I became acquainted shortly after my visit to the Charter 
House. I confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it 
was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon 
inquiring travellers like myself; and which have brought 
our general character for veracity into such unmerited 



LONDON ANTIQUES 255 

IT^^'^'hu °" "'^^'''^ P'^P^"" inquiries, however, I have 
probS h"".' 'ff-'^'-^y assurances of the kuthor' 
probity and, indeed, have been told that he is actuallv 
engaged in a full and particular account of the very n2 
^sting region in which he resides; of which the foHow ng 
may be considered merely as a foretaste. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 

What I write is most true * * * * i have a whole booke of cases 
lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients 
(within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. 

Nashe. 

In the centre of the great city of London lies a small 
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets 
and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, 
which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ 
Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it 
on the west; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; 
Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from 
the eastern part of the city; whilst the yawning gulf of 
Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, 
and the regions of Newgate. Over this httle territory, 
thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. 
Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Pater- 
noster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks 
down with an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, 
in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. 
As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off 
to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took 
possession of their deserted abodes. For some time 
Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and 
was peopled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers; 
these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond 
the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Pater- 
noster Row and St. Paul's Church- Yard, where they con- 
tinue to increase and multiply even at the present day, 



LITTLE BRITAIN 257 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still 
bears traces of its former splendor. There are several 
houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are 
magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hid- 
eous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes: and fruits 
and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to clas- 
sify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains 
of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, 
but which have in latter days been subdivided into sev- 
eral tenements. Here may often be found the family of 
a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrow- 
ing among the relics of antiquated finery, in great ram- 
bling time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, 
gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The 
lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not 
on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, 
sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. 
These have their gable ends to the street; great bow win- 
dows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carv- 
ings, and low arched door-ways. ^ 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I 
passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably 
lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest but old- 
est edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted cham- 
ber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous 
array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three 
or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with 
tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen 
better days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old 
palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep to- 
gether, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon 
their leathern-bottomed neighbors; as I have seen decayed 
gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society 
with which they were reduced to associate. The whole 
front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window; 

1 It is evident that the author of this interesting communication 
has included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those 
little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 
17 



258 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous 
occupants for many generations, mingled with scraps of 
very indifferent gentlemanhke poetry, written in char- 
acters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the 
charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, 
long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am 
an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay 
my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the 
only independent gentleman of the neighborhood; and, 
being curious to learn the internal state of a community so 
apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work 
my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of 
the city; the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a 
fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its 
antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great 
preservation many of the holiday games and customs of 
yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on 
Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and 
roast goose at Michaelmas; they send love-letters on Val- 
entine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November, 
and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. 
Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in super- 
stitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their 
grounds as the only true English wines; all others being 
considered vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, 
which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world; 
such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the 
beer when it tolls; the figures that strike the hours at St. 
Dunstan's clock; the Monument; the Uons in the Tower; 
and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe 
in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that 
lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsis- 
tence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls 
good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom- 
fortable by comets and echpses; and if a dog howls dole- 
fully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death 



LITTLE BRITAIN 259 

in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, 
particularly concerning the old mansion-houses; in several 
of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. 
Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs, hang- 
ing sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, 
and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the 
great waste chambers, on moonlight nights; and are sup- 
posed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their 
court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. 
One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry 
old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small 
apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, 
full of cavities and projections; with a brown circle round 
each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much 
thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind 
of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alligators 
hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. 
He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is 
much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, con- 
spiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which 
last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He 
has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his 
customers, with their doses; and thus at the same time 
puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great 
believer in omens and predictions; and has the prophe- 
cies of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No 
man can make so much out of an ecHpse, or even an un- 
usually dark day; and he shook the tail of the last comet 
over the heads of his customers and disciples until they 
were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately 
got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has 
been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying cur- 
rent among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up these 
things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the Ex- 
change shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow 
Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This 
strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to 



260 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the 
repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of 
Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the 
grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his 
workshop. 

''Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, ''may 
go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, 
but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and 
under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and cal- 
culations of astrologers." Since these portentous weather- 
cocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful 
events had already occurred. The good old king, not- 
withstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had all 
at once given up the ghost; another king had mounted 
the throne; a royal duke had died suddenly — another- 
in France, had been murdered; there had been radical 
meetings in all parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes 
at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street; — and, above 
all, the queen had returned to England! All these sinis- 
ter events are recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a myste- 
rious look, and a dismal shake of the head; and being taken 
with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his audi- 
tors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his 
own visage, which is a title-page of tribulation, they have 
spread great gloom through the minds of the people of 
Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever they 
go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never expected 
any good to com€ of taking down that steeple, which in 
old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of 
Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family 
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round- 
bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. 
Indeed he is a man of no little standing and importance; 
and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad 
Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very 
much taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday 



LITTLE BRITAIN 261 

papers for the last half century, together with the Gentle- 
man^ s Magazine, Rapin's ''History of England," and the 
Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable 
maxims which have borne the test of time and use for 
centuries. It is his firm opinion that ''it is a moral im- 
possible," so long as England is true to herself, that any 
thing can shake her: and he has much to say on the sub- 
ject of the national debt; which, somehow or other, he 
proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He 
passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little 
Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, 
and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins 
to take his pleasure and see the world. He has there- 
fore made several excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, 
and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole 
afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through 
a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. 
Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and- 
Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes; and he is 
considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose 
and Gridiron, St. Paul's Church-yard. His family have 
been very urgent for him to make an expedition to Mar- 
gate, but he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, 
the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced 
in life to undertake sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divi- 
sions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in con- 
sequence of two rival "Burial Societies" being set up in 
the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse 
Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; the other 
at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothe- 
cary: it is needless to say that the latter was the most 
flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, 
and have acquired much valuable information, as to the 
best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of 
church-yards, together with divers hints on the subject of 
patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed 
in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the 



262 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

latter on account of their durability. The feuds occa- 
sioned by these societies have happily died of late; but 
they were for a long time prevailing themes of contro- 
versy, the people of Little Britain being extremely soHci- 
tous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in their 
graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of 
quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine 
of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets 
once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a 
jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for 
insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a most seductive 
bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscrip- 
tions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as 
''Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," ''Wine, Rum, 
and Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, 
etc." This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and 
Momus from time immemorial. It has always been in 
the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably 
preserved by the present landlord. It was much fre- 
quented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of 
Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits 
of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff princi- 
pally prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in 
one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his 
ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This however 
is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast 
of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes 
by the name of "The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." 
They abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, 
that are traditional in the place, and not to be met with 
in any other part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap 
undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song; but the 
hfe of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, 
is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags 
before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large 
stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from genera- 



LITTLE BRITAIN 263 

tion to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper little 
fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, with a 
moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. 
At the opening of every club night he is called in to sing 
his ''Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drink- 
ing trowl from ''Gammer Gurton's Needle." He sings 
it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it 
from his father's lips; for it has been a standing favorite 
at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was 
written: nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often 
had the honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry 
at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all 
its glory. 1 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, 
the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now 
and then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant 
voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At such 
times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a de- 
light equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, 
or snuffing up the steams of a cookshop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir 
and sensation in Little Britain; these are St. Bartholo- 

1 As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be 
familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the 
current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthog- 
raphy. I would observe, that the whole club always join in the 
chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter 
pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 
Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 

Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 
Whether it be new or olde. 



264 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 



mew's fair, khd the Lord Mayor's day. During the time 
of the fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smith- 
field, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding 
about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are over- 
run with an irruption of strange figures and faces; every 
tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the 
song are heard from the tap-room, morning, noon, and 
night; and at each window may be seen some group of 
boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, 
pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, 
and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the 
sober decorum of private families, which I must say is 

I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, . 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse. 

Good ale doth bring men to; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 265 

rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no 
proof against this SaturnaUa. There is no such thing as 
keeping maid-servants witliin doors. Their brains are 
absolutely set madding with Punch and the puppet 
Show; the Flying Horses ; Signior Polito; the Fire-Eater; 
the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The 
children too lavish all their holiday money in toys and 
gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian 
din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. 
The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of 
Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth; his 
gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splen- 
dor; and his procession, with all the Sheriffs and Alder- 
men in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. 
How they exult in the idea, that the King himself dare 
not enter the city, without first knocking at the gate of 
Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord Mayor: 
for if he did, heaven and earth! there is no knowing what 
might be the consequence. The man in armor who rides 
before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has 
orders to cut down every body that offends against the 
dignity of the city ; and then there is the little man with a 
velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of 
the state coach, and holds the city sword, as long as a 
pike-staff — Odd's blood! If he once draws that sword, 
Majesty itself is not safe! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, there- 
fore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. 
Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes; 
and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to 
throw himself into the Tower, call in the train bands, and 
put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he 
may bid defiance to the world! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, 
and its own opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as 
a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have 
pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, 



266 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

where the principles of sturdy John BuUism were gar- 
nered up, Uke seed corn, to renew the national character, 
when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have re- 
joiced also in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed 
throughout it; for though there might now and then be a 
few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud be- 
tween the burial societies, yet these were but transient 
clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met with 
good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never 
abused each other except behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties 
at which I have been present; where we played at All- 
Fours, Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice 
old games; and where we sometimes had a good old Eng- 
lish country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. 
Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, 
and go on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would have 
done any man's heart good to see the merriment that 
took place here as we banqueted on the grass under the 
trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of 
laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry 
undertaker! After dinner, too, the young folks would 
play at blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek; and it was 
amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear 
a fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the 
bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheese- 
monger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics; 
for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pock- 
ets, to pass away time in the country. They would now 
and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument; but 
their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a 
worthy old umbrella maker in a double chin, who, never 
exactly comprehending the subject, managed somehow 
or other to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or histo- 
rian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury 
and innovation creep in; factions arise; and families now 



LITTLE BRITAIN 267 

and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw 
the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter days 
has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously dis- 
turbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened 
with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired 
butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs 
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was 
pleased when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut 
up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on his door. 
In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the 
honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayor- 
ess, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore 
three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The fam- 
ily never got over it; they were immediately smitten with 
a passion for high life; set up a one-horse carriage, put a 
bit of gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have been 
the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood ever 
since. They could no longer be induced to play at Pope- 
Joan or blind-man's-buff; they could endure no dances but 
quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little 
Britain; and they took to reading novels, talking bad 
French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, 
who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy 
and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts; 
and he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talk- 
ing about Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neigh- 
bors; but they had a great deal of genteel company from 
Theobald's Road, Red-Lion Square, and other parts to- 
wards the west. There were several beaux of their 
brother's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hat- 
ton Garden; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies 
with their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or 
forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the 
smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and 



26g THE SKETCH-BOOK 

the rattling and the jinghng of hackney coaches. The 
gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their 
night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy ve- 
hicles rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old 
cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite 
the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every 
one that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the 
whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing 
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, 
when she had no engagements with her quality acquain- 
tance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to sorne 
of her old cronies, ^' quite,'' as she would say, '' in a friendly 
way;" and it is equally true that her invitations were 
always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the con- 
trary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted 
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would conde- 
scend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano; 
and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. 
Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of 
Portsokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heir- 
esses of Crutched-Friars; but then they relieved their 
consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confed- 
erates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation 
every thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and 
their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made 
fashionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest 
Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, 
hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black 
hair like a shoe brush, and a broad face mottled like his 
own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always 
spoke of him as ''the old gentleman," addressed him as 
''papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to 
coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other 
gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no 
keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would 
break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vul- 



LITTLE BRITAIN 269 

gar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes 
made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in 
wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two 
o'clock, and having a ''bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity 
of his family. He found his old comrades gradually 
growing cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his 
jokes; and now and then throwing out a fling at "some 
people," and a hint about ''quality binding." This both 
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his 
wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the 
shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at 
length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe 
and tankard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by himself, 
and take his pint of port — a liquor he detested — and to 
nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the 
streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and 
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves 
of every good lady within hearing. They even went so 
far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a 
French dancing-master to set up in the neighborhood; but 
the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did 
so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up 
fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipi- 
tation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all 
this fiery indignation on the part of the community was 
merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English 
manners, and their horror of innovation; and I applauded 
the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, 
for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. 
But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection 
had taken hold; and that my neighbors, after condemning, 
were beginning to follow their example. I overheard 
my landlady importuning her husband to let their daugh- 
ters have one quarter at French and music, and that they 
might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the 



270 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

course of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, 
precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about 
Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually 
die away; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh- 
borhood ; might die, or might run away with attor- 
neys' apprentices; and that quiet and simplicity might be 
again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival 
power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow 
with a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. 
The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the 
parsimony of a })rudent fatlier, which kept down all their 
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer 
restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took 
the field against the family of the butcher. It is true 
that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally 
an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They 
could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance 
quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the 
Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs 
appearetl with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters 
mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs 
gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behind- 
hand: and though they might not boast of as good com- 
pany, yet they had double the number, and were twice 
as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two 
families. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come- 
tickle-me are entirely discarded; there is no such thing as 
getting up an honest country dance; and on my attempt- 
ing to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christ- 
mas, I was indignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having 
pronounced it ''shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has 
also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little 
Britain; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross- 
Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. 
Bartholomew's. 



LITTLI'J />7i77'.t/.V 271 

Thus is this hlMo territory torn by factions and inter- 
nal dissensions, Hke the j^reat eni[)iro vviiose nanu) it bears; 
and what will be the result would })uz/de the apothecary 
himself, with all his talent at. prognostics, to determine; 
though 1 apprehend that it. will ttM-minatc in tlu^ total 
downfall of ^-eiuiine .It)hn lUillism. 

The immediate elTei^ts iwc t^xtremely unpleasant, t.o me. 
Being a sin«!;le man, and, ns I obscrx-ed before, rather an 
idle good-for-not hini!; pei'son.T^t*, 1 \\-a\o Ixmmi considered 
the only gentltMnaii by i)rof(\ssion in the place. 1 stand 
therefore in liigh fa,vor with both parti(\s, and ha\H' to 
hear all their cabinc^t (U)uncils a,n(l nuitual backbit ings. 
As I am too civil not to a.gree with tlui la,dies on' all occa- 
sions, 1 have committed myself most, horribly with both 
parties, by abusing their opponents. 1 might, manage to 
reconcile this to my (U)nscience, wiiieh is a truly accom- 
modating one, but I cannot to my apprehension if llu^ 
l^anibs and Trotters vxcv (U)me to a reconciliation, and 
compare notes, 1 am ruined! 

1 have determined, therefor(\ to beat a i-eti(\at. in time, 
and am actually looking out for some othiM- nest, in this 
great city, when^ old l*]nglish ma.nnei-s nw. still kept. U|); 
where l*'rench is neithei* eaten, di-uiik, danced, nor spoken; 
and where there an^ no fashionable families of ri^lired 
tradesmen. This found, I will, like a, \'el(Man rat, hast.en 
away before 1 ha\'e an old house !d)()Ul. my ears; bid a 
long, though a sorrowfnl adicni to my |)resent. abode, a.nd 
leave the rival factions of tlu^ Lambs and thi^ Trotters to 
divide tlui distracted empire of liTi riii'; liiaiAiN. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary 
feeling of something like independence and territorial 
consequence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks 
off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches 
himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as 
it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the 
wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the 
very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his 
throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some 
twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel 
of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertain- 
ties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a 
cloudy day: and he who has advanced some way on the 
pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of hus- 
banding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. 
''Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as 
I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and 
cast a complacent look about the httle parlor of the Red 
Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing 
through my mind as the clock struck midnight from the 
tower of the church in which he Ues buried. There was 
a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, put- 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 273 

ting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, 
whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint 
that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute domin- 
ion was at an end; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent 
potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the Strat- 
ford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, 
I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, the 
jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening morn- 
ings which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was 
about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter 
had suddenly given way; the north wind had spent its 
last gasp; and a mild air came stealing from the west, 
breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every 
bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, 
and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to 
his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean- 
looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place 
of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring 
in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are 
covered with names and inscriptions in every language, 
by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from 
the prince to the peasant; and present a simple, but strik- 
ing instance of the spontaneous and universal homage 
of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 
red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and gar- 
nished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from 
under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly 
assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all 
other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shat- 
tered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakspeare 
shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was 
y^ tobacco-box; which proves that he was a rival smoker 
O'Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also with which he played 
I^mlet; and the identical lantern with which Friar Lau- 

18 



274 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

rence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! There 
was an ample supply also of Shakspeare's mulberry- 
tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self- 
multiplication as the wood of the true cross; of which 
there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is 
Shakspeare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a I 
small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's ' 
shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, . 
watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing ^ 
of an urchin; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and : 
gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church-yard tales : 
and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of \ 
England. In this chair it is the custom of every one that : 
visits the house to sit: whether this be done with the hope 
of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a i 
loss to say — I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess 
privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, i 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had I 
to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It is I 
worthy of notice also, in the history of this extraordinary j 
chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature of ', 
the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Ara- ; 
bian enchanter; for though sold some few years since to a ! 
northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its] 
way back again to the old chimney. • 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever ; 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and ' 
costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, ; 
legends, and lacal anecdotes of goblins and great men; ■ 
and would advise all travellers who travel for their grati- : 
fication to be the same. What is it to us, whether these j 
stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade our- 
selves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charms ! 
of the reality? There is nothing like resolute good- | 
humored credulity in these matters; and on this occasirn : 
I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims ^i" 
mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, wh«, 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 275 

unluckily for my faith she put into my hands a play of her 
own composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity 
at defiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the 
parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering 
with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks 
of the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by 
adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its 
situation is quiet and retired: the river runs murmuring 
at the foot of the church-yard, and the elms which grow 
upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. 
An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously 
interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of 
foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church 
porch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the gray 
tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, 
are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the 
reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests 
among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up 
a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are sailing 
and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the 
key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and 
boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself 
a vigorous man, with the trivial Exception that he had 
nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His 
dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and 
its bordering meadows; and was a picture of that neat- 
ness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest 
dwellings in this country. A low white-washed room, 
with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, 
kitchen, and all. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes 
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well 
rubbed and -polished, lay the family Bible and prayer- 
book, and the drawer contained the family library, com- 
posed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 



276 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furni- 
ture, ticked on the opposite side of the room; with a bright 
warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's 
horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, 
as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip 
knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man's 
granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in 
the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom 
he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, 
had been his companion from childhood. They had 
played together in infancy; they had worked together in 
manhood; they were now tottering about and gossiping 
away the evening of life; and in a short time they will 
probably be buried together in the neighboring church- 
yard. It is not often that we see two streams of exis- 
tence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it 
is only in such quiet ''bosom scenes" of life that they are 
to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of 
the bard from these ancient chroniclers; but they had 
nothing new to impart. The long interval during which 
Shakspeare's writings lay in comparative neglect has 
spread its shadow over his history; and it is his good or 
evil lot that scarcely any thing remains to his biographers 
but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as 
carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Strat- 
ford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime 
mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, 
and, who, according to the sexton, was ''a short punch 
man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted 
also in cutting down Shakspeare's mulberry tree, of which 
he had a morsel in his pocket for sale; no doubt a sovereign 
quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shak- 
speare house. John Ange shook his head when I men- 
tioned her valuable collection of relics, particularly her 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 277 

remains of the mulberry tree; and the old sexton even 
expressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in 
her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her 
mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb; 
the latter having comparatively but few visitors. Thus 
it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere 
pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different 
channels even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of 
limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, 
with carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spa- 
cious, and the architecture and embellishments superior 
to those of most country churches. There are several 
ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of 
which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping 
piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare is 
in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. 
Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the 
Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, 
keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks 
the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines 
inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and 
which have in them something extremely awful. If they 
are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the 
quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities 
and thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and consid- 
ered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and se- 
rene, with a finely-arched forehead; and I thought I 
could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social 
disposition, by which he was as much characterized 



278 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. 
The inscription mentions his age at the time of his de- 
cease — fifty-three years; an untimely death for the 
world: for what fruit might not have been expected from 
the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was 
from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in 
the sunshine of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without 
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains 
from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, 
which was at one time contemplated. A few years since 
also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining 
vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space 
almost like an arch, through which one might have reached 
into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle 
with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction; 
and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of 
relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the 
old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until 
the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. 
He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, 
but could see neither coffin nor bones; nothing but dust. 
It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a 
tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend 
John Combe of usurious memory; on whom he is said to 
have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monu- 
ments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any 
thing that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea 
pervades the place; the whole pile seems but as his mau- 
soleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted 
by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence: other traces 
of him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable evi- 
dence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding 
pavement, there was something intense and thrilling in 
the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 279 

were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time 
before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place; 
and as I passed through the church-yard, I plucked a 
branch from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I 
have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- 
tion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the 
Lucys, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park 
where Shakspeare, in company with some of the roysters 
of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of deer- 
stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told that 
he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, 
where he remained all night in doleful captivity. When 
brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treat- 
ment must have been galling and humiliating; for it so 
wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, 
which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot. ^ 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so 
incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to 
put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming 
deer-stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united 
puissance of a knight of the shire and a country attor- 
ney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the 
Avon and his paternal trade; wandered away to London; 
became a hanger-on to the theatres; then an actor; and, 
finally, wrote for the stage; and thus, through the perse- 
cution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent 

1 The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon: — 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great; 

Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 



280 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet.' 
He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh 
treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself 
in his writings; but in the sportive way of a good-natured 
mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original Justice Shal- 
low, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's 
armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, had 
white luces ^ in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers 
to soften and explain away this early transgression of the 
poet; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless ex- 
ploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shak- 
speare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and 
irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected 
genius. The poetic temperament has naturally some- 
thing in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs 
loosely and wildly, and delights in every thing eccentric 
and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gam- 
bling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn 
out a great rogue or a great poet; and had not Shakspeare's 
mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as 
daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic 
laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, 
like an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Strat- 
ford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds of 
odd anomalous characters; that he associated with all 
the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky 
urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their heads, 
and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. 
To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was 
doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck 
his eager, and, as yet untamed, imagination, as some- 
thing delightfully adventurous. ^ 

1 The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about 
Charlecot. 

2 A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his 
youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up 



STRA T FORD-ON -A VON 28 1 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park 
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are 
peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this 
whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty his- 
tory of the bard. As the house stood but little more than 
three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a 
pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through 
some of those scenes from which Shakspeare must have 
derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless; but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the 

at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his Picturesque 
Views on the Avon. 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market 
town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village 
yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, 
and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages 
to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford 
were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and in the num- 
ber of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb 
that "they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale 
as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Sti;atford was staggered at 
the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry 
them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their 
legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, 
W'here they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the 
name of Shakspeare 's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed 
returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, 
having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

"The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the 
epithets thus given them: the people of Pebworth are still famed for 
their skill on the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now called Haunted 
Hilborough; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



282 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

temperature of the weather was surprising in its quicken- 
ing effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and ani- 
mating to witness this first awakening of spring; to feel 
its warm breath stealing over the senses; to see the moist 
mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout 
and the tender blade: and the trees and shrubs, in their 
reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of 
returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that 
little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen 
with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before 
the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was 
faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered 
about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin 
threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain; 
and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the 
meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pour- 
ing forth torrents of melody. As I watched the httle 
songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body 
was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while 
the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind 
Shakspeare's exquisite little song in ''Cymbeline:" 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet arise! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground: 
every thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. 
Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort 
of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowl- 
edge of rustic life and manners, and heard those legen- 
dary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like 
witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, 



STRA T FORD-ON -A VON 283 

it was a popular amusement in winter evenings ''to sit 
round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, 
queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, 
cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." ^ 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and 
windings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes 
glittering from among willows, which fringed its borders; 
sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath green 
banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and 
making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. 
This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the 
Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems 
to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening land- 
scape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the 
Avon. • 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned 
off into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, 
and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park; there 
was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian; 
there being a public right of way through the grounds. I 
delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one 
has a kind of property— at least as far as the footpath is 
concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to 
his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neigh- 
bor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open 
for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, 
and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the 
soil; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he 

1 Scot, in his Discoverie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of these 
fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull- beggars, 
spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, 
syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, 
imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin- 
good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell- 
waine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom 
Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our 
own shadowes." 



284 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of 
paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. 
The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and 
the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree 
tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, 
with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue; 
and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the 
opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues 
that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely 
from the pretended similarity of form, but from their 
bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had 
their origin in a period of time with which we associate 
ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long- 
settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated independence 
of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but aristo- 
cratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptu- 
ous palaces of modern gentry, that ''money could do 
much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there 
was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of 
oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich 
scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoin- 
ing park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the 
Lucy estate, that some of Shakspeare's commentators 
have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations of 
Jacques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in ''As 
You Like It." It isin lonely wanderings through such 
scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 
inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty 
and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into 
reverie and rapture; vague but exquisite images and ideas 
keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute and al- 
most incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some 
such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees 
before me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 285 

banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's 
fancy may have salhed forth into that Httle song which 
breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary: 

Under the green wood tree, 
Who loves to He with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large 
building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic 
style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the 
first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly 
in its original state, and may be considered a fair speci- 
men of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of 
those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a 
kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with 
a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is 
in imitation of the ancient barbacan; being a kind of out- 
post, and flanked by towers; though evidently for mere 
ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is 
completely in the old style; with stone-shafted casements, 
a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a portal 
with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each 
corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by 
a gilt ball and weather-cock. 

The^ Avon, which winds through the park, makes a 
bend just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which 
sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds of 
deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders; and swans 
were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contem- 
plated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Fal- 
staff's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the 
affected indifference and real vanity of the latter: 



286 'I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

"FalstaJJ. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
John: — marry, good air." 

What may have been the joviality of the old man- 
sion in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of still- 
ness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened 
into the courtyard was locked; there was no show of 
servants bustling about the place; the deer gazed quietly 
at me at I passed, being no longer harried by the moss- 
troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life 
that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look 
and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some ne- 
farious expedition. I must not omit to mention the car- 
cass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against 
the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that 
lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous 
exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously 
manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found 
my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day en- 
trance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a 
worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- 
municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the 
house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and 
been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living: there 
is a fine old oaken staircase; and the great hall, that 
noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains 
much of the appearance it must have had in the days of 
Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty; and at one 
end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons 
and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the 
hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family 
portraits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calcu- 
lated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the 
rallying-place of winter festivity. On the opposite side 
of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with stone 
shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are 
emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the 



STRA T FORD-ON- A VON 287 

Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 
1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarterings the 
three white luces, by which the character of Sir Thomas 
was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They 
are mentioned in the first scene of the ''Merry Wives of 
Windsor/' where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff 
for having '' beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken 
into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of 
himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we 
may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of 
the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous 
indignation of Sir Thomas. 

"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star- 
Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaff s, he shall not 
abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master 
parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, 
or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hun- 
dred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all 
his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen 
white luces in their coat.***** 

Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear of 
Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of 
Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should 
end it!" 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 
Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty 
of the time of Charles the Second: the old housekeeper 
shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed 
me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and 
had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, 
among which was that part of the park where Shakspeare 
and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus 



288 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at 
the present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame 
to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 
The picture which most attracted my attention was a 
great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of 
Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall 
in the latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first 
thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the 
housekeeper assured me that it was his son; the only like- 
ness extant of the former being an efhgy upon his tomb 
in the church of the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. ^ 
The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and man- 
ners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doub- 
let; white shoes with roses in them; and has a peaked yel- 
low, or, as Master Slender would say, '^a cane-colored 
beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of the 
picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the chil- 
dren have a most venerable stiffness and formality of 

1 This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in com- 
plete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb 
is the following inscription; which, if really composed by her hus- 
hand, places hirh quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow: 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of 
Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of 
Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who de- 
parted out of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 
day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 
60 and three. All the tiine of her lyfe a true and faythful servant 
of her good God, never detected of any cryme or vice. In religion 
most sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and true. In 
friendship most constant; to what in trust was committed unto her 
most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, 
bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her 
moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. 
Greatly esteemed of her betters; misliked of none unless of the 
envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so gar- 
nished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled 
by any. As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. 
Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be 
true. Thomas Lucye. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 289 

dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family 
group; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, 
and one of the children holds a bow; — all intimating the 
knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and archery — so in- 
dispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days. ^ 
I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall 
had disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately 
elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of 
former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over 
his rural domains; and in which it might be presumed the 
redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when 
the recreant Shakspeare was brought before him. As I 
like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I 
pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been 
the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morn- 
ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself 
the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of 
butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men, with their 
badges; while the luckless culprit was brought in, for- 
lorn and chopfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, hunts- 
men, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of 
country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious house- 
maids peeping from the half-opened doors; while from 
the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned grace- 
fully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that pity 
''that dwells in womanhood." — Who would have thought 
that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief 

1 Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, ob- 
serves, "his housekeeping is seen much in the different famiUes of 
dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels; and the deepness 
of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems 
the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem 
delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." 
And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, "he kept 
all sorts of hounds that run — buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and 
had hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall 
was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, 
hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with 
brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 
19 



290 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

authority of a country squire, and the sport of rustic 
boorS; was soon to become the dehght of princes, the 
theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human 
mind, and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by 
a caricature and a lampoon! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the gar- 
den, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor 
where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin 
Silence ''to a last year's pippin of his own grafting, with a 
dish of caraways;" but I had already spent so much of 
the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up 
any further investigations. When about to take my 
leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the house- 
keeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment: 
an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, 
we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I 
make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representa- 
tive of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors; for Shak- 
speare, even in his caricatures, makes Justice Shallow 
importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing in- 
stances to Falstaff. 

"By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night * * * I will not 
excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; 
there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused * * *. Some 
pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and 
any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My 
mind had become so completely possessed by the imagi- 
nary scenes and characters connected with it, that I 
seemed to be actually living among them. Every thing 
brought them as it were before my eyes ; and as the door 
of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear 
the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his 
favorite ditty: 

"'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide!" 



STRA T FORD-ON -A VON 29 1 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the 
magic of his mind over the very face of nature; to give 
to things and places a charm and character not their 
own, and to turn this ''working-day world" into a per- 
fect fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose 
spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagi- 
nation and the heart. Under the wizard influence of 
Shakspeare I had been walking all day in a complete 
delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the 
prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues 
of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied 
beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic 
power; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reaUty. 
I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak; had be- 
held the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring 
through the woodlands; and, above all, had been once 
more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his con- 
temporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to 
the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten 
thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus 
gilded the dull realities of life with, innocent illusions; 
who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my 
chequered path; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 
hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of 
social life! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the 
poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the maledic- 
tion, which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet 
and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have 
derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with 
the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a 
titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in 
Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this rev- 
erend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness 
as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about the grave 
may be but the offspring of an over- wrought sensibility; 



292 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices; 
and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with 
these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldl}^ 
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admira- 
tion, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which 
springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks 
to be gathered in peace and honor among his kindred and 
his early friends. And when the weary heart and failing 
head begin to warn him that the evening of life is draw- 
ing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the moth- 
er's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of 
his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 
world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 
could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should 
return to it covered with renown; that his name should 
become the boast and glory of his native place; that his 
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious 
treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes 
were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day be- 
come the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, 
to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 

"I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin 
hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, 
and he clothed him not." 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 

There is something in the character and habits of the 
North American savage, taken in connection with the 
scenery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast 
lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless 
plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and sub- 
lime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for 
the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and enduring; 
fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support priva- 
tions. There seems but little soil in his heart for the 
support of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we would but 
take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism 
and habitual taciturnity, which lock up his character 
from casual observation, we should find him linked to his 
fellow-man of civilized life by more of those sympathies 
and affections than are usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of 
America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly 
wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed 
of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and fre- 
quently wanton warfare: and their characters have been 
traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist 
often treated them like beasts of the forest; and the au- 
thor has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The 
former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize; 
the latter to vilify than .to discriminate. The appellations 



294 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction 
the hostilities of both; and thus the poor wanderers of the 
forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they 
were guilty, but because they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly 
appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace he 
has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has 
been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death 
was a question of mere precaution and convenience. 
Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is en- 
dangered, and he is sheltered by impunity; and little 
mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels the sting 
of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, 
exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain 
learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, 
endeavored to investigate and record the real characters 
and manners of the Indian tribes; the American govern- 
ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to in- 
culcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, 
and to protect them from fraud and injustice. ^ The cur- 
rent opinion of the Indian character, however, is too apt 
to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest the 
frontiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These 
are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, cor- 
rupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without 
being benefited by its civilization. That proud indepen- 
dence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has 
been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in 
ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a 
sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and 

1 The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions 
to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among 
them the arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To 
protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of 
land from them by individuals is permitted; nor is any person 
allowed to receive lands from them as a present, without the ex- 
press sanction of government. These precautions are strictly en- 
forced. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 295 

daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their 
enhghtened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them 
Hke one of those withering airs that will sometimes breed 
desolation over a whole region of fertility. It has ener- 
vated their strength, multiplied their diseases, and super- 
induced upon their original barbarity the low vices of 
artificial life. It has given them a thousand superfluous 
wants, whilst it has diminished their means of mere exis- 
tence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, who 
fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the set- 
tlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests 
and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the 
Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and rem- 
nants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the 
vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and 
vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless 
poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, 
corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and noble 
quality of their natures. They become drunken, indo- 
lent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter 
like vagrants about the settlements, among spacious 
dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, which only ren- 
der them sensible of the comparative wretchedness of 
their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample board 
before their eyes; but they are excluded from the banquet. 
Plenty revels over the fields; but they are starving in the 
midst of its abundance: the whole wilderness has blos- 
somed into a garden; but they feel as reptiles that infest 
it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil ! Their w^ants were few, and the means of 
gratification within their reach. They saw every one 
around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same 
hardships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the 
same rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open 
to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the 
trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its fire, and join 
the hunter in his repast. ''For," says an old historian of 



296 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

New England, "their life is so void of care, and they are 
so loving also, that they make use of those things they 
enjoy as common goods, and are therein so compassion- 
ate, that rather than one should starve through want, 
they would starve all; thus they pass their time merrily, 
not regarding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such 
were the Indians, whilst in the pride and energy of their 
primitive natures: they resembled those wild plants, 
which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink 
from the hand of cultivation, and perish beneath the 
influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been 
too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate 
exaggeration, instead of the candid temper of true phil- 
osophy. They have not sufficiently considered the pe- 
culiar circumstances in which the Indians have been 
placed, and the peculiar principles under which they 
have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from 
rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated 
according to some general maxims early implanted in his 
mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, 
but few; but then he conforms to them all; — the white 
man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, 
but how many does he violate? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians 
is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wan- 
tonness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will 
suddenly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white 
men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, 
distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom 
treat them with that confidence and frankness which are 
indispensable to real friendship; nor is sufficient caution 
observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
superstition, which often prompts the Indian to hostility 
quicker than mere considerations of interest. The soli- 
tary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities 
are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 297 

white man; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. 
His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all directed 
towards fewer objects; but the wounds inflicted on them are 
proportionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility 
which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a com- 
munity is also limited in number, and forms one great 
patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an 
individual is the injury of the whole; and the sentiment 
of vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. One 
council fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrange- 
ment of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men 
and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition com- 
bine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator 
awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a 
kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet 
and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, 
arising from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, 
is extant in an old record of the early settlement of Massa- 
chusetts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the 
monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plun- 
dered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins 
with which it had been decorated. The Indians are 
remarkable for the reverence which they entertain for 
the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed 
generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, 
when by chance they have been travelhng in the vicinity, 
have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, 
guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed 
the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in 
woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently de- 
posited; and there have passed hours in silent meditation. 
Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem 
whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his 
men together, and addressed them in the following beau- 
tifully simple and pathetic harangue; a curious specimen 
of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial 
piety in a savage. 



298 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

''When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, 
as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were 
fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit 
was much troubled; and trembling at that doleful sight, 
a spirit cried aloud, 'Behold, my son, whom I have cher- 
ished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 
lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget 
to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced 
my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our an- 
tiquities and honorable customs? See, now, the Sach- 
em's grave lies like the common people, defaced by an 
ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implore thy 
aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded 
on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in 
my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit van- 
ished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, be- 
gan to get some strength, and recollect my spirits that 
were fled, and determined to demand your counsel and 
assistance.'' 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it 
tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which 
have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often 
arise from deep and generous motives, which our inat- 
tention to Indian character and customs prevents our 
properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians 
is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin 
partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, 
though sometimes called nations, were never so formi- 
dable in their numbers, but that the loss of several warriors 
was sensibly felt; this was particularly the case when 
they had been frequently engaged in warfare; and many 
an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that 
had long been formidable to its neighbors, has been broken 
up and driven away, by the capture and massacre of its 
principal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, 
therefore, to the victor to be merciless; not so much to 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 299 

gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future secur- 
ity. The Indians had also the superstitious belief, fre- 
quent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also 
among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who 
had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the cap- 
tives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacri- 
ficed, are adopted into their families in the place of the 
slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection 
of relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable and tender is 
their entertainment, that when the alternative is offered 
them, they will often prefer to remain with their adopted 
brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends 
of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has 
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. 
What was formerly a compliance with policy and super- 
stition, has been exasperated into a gratification of ven- 
geance. They cannot but be sensible that the white 
men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause 
of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their 
race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and 
indignities which they have individually suffered, and 
they are driven to madness and despair by the wide- 
spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin of Eu- 
ropean warfare. The whites have too frequently set 
them an example of violence, by burning their villages, 
and laying w^ste their slender means of subsistence: and 
yet they wonder that savages do not show moderation 
and magnanimity towards those who have left them 
nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treach- 
erous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in prefer- 
ence to open force; but in this they are fully justified by 
their rude code of honor. They are early taught that 
stratagem is praiseworthy; the bravest warrior thinks it 
no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage 
of his foe: he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity 
by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an 



300 'I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to sub- 
tilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness in 
comparison with other animals. They are endowed 
with natural weapons of defence: with horns, with tusks, 
with hoofs, and talons; but man has to depend on his 
superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his 
proper enemies, he resorts to strategem; and when he 
perversely turns his hostihty against his fellow-man, he 
at first continues the same subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to 
our enemy with the least harm to ourselves; and this of 
course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous 
courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of 
prudence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is 
the offspring of society, and produced by education. It 
is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty 
sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and 
over those yearnings after personal ease and security, 
which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive 
by pride and the fear of shame; and thus the dread of 
real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil 
which exists but in the imagination. It has been cher- 
ished and stimulated also by various means. It has 
been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous 
story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed 
round it the splendors of fiction; and even the historian 
has forgotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken 
forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Tri- 
umphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward: 
monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and 
opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a 
nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially ex- 
cited, courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious 
degree of heroism: and arrayed in all the glorious ''pomp 
and circumstance of war," this turbulent quality has 
even been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but inval- 
uable virtues, which silently ennoble the human char- 
acter, and swell the tide of human happiness. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 301 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of 
danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual ex- 
hibition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility 
and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his na- 
ture; or rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and 
to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by hos- 
tile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and 
surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with 
his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful 
singleness through the solitudes of ocean; — as the bird 
mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a 
mere speck, across the pathless fields of air; — so the In- 
dian holds his course, silent, sohtary, but undaunted, 
through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His 
expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the 
pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight- 
errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards 
of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining 
famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no 
obstacles to his wanderings: in his light canoe of bark he 
sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, with the 
swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the riv- 
ers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of 
toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and 
dangers of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the 
bear, the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the 
thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the In- 
dian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude 
with which he sustains its cruellest infliction. Indeed 
we here behold him rising superior to the white man, in 
consequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes 
to glorious death at the cannon's mouth; the former 
calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly 
endures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding 
foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes 
a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their 
ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring flames prey on 



302 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he 
raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of 
an unconquered heart, and, invoking the spirits of his 
fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early 
historians have overshadowed the characters of the un- 
fortunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break 
through, which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on 
their memories. Facts are occasionally to be met with 
in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though 
recorded with the coloring of prejudices and bigotry, yet 
speak for themselves; and will be dwelt on with applause 
and sympathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in 
New England, there is a touching account of the desola- 
tion carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Hu- 
manity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscrim- 
inate butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of 
an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were 
wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot 
down and slain in attempting to escape, ''all being des- 
patched and ended in the course of an hour." After a 
series of similar transactions, '' our soldiers," as the histo- 
rian piously observes, ''being resolved by God's assis- 
tance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy 
savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, 
and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gallant 
band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with 
their wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by de- 
spair; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction 
of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied 
ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives 
at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to 
submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their 
dismal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable.. 
Thus situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 303 

time, by which means many were killed and buried in 
the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the 
dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers and 
escaped into the woods: 'Hhe rest were left to the con- 
querors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like 
sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness 
and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to 
pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke 
upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the 
soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, ''saw several 
heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they 
discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol 
bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under 
the boughs, within a few yards of them; so as, besides 
those that were found dead, many more were killed and 
sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by 
friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without 
admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the 
loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of 
these self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the 
instinctive feelings of human nature? When the Gauls 
laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators 
in their curule chairs; in this manner they suffered death 
without resistance or even supplication. Such conduct 
was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous; 
in the hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sul- 
len! How truly are we the dupes of show and circum- 
stance! How different is virtue, clothed in purple and 
enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and destitute, 
and perishing obscurely in a wilderness! 

But I forbear to dvv^ell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests 
that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any 
traces remain of them in the thickly-settled states of 
New England, excepting here and there the Indian name 
of a village or a stream. And such must, sooner or later, 
be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, 



304 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests 
to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, 
and they will go the way that their brethren have gone 
before. The few hordes which still linger about the 
shores of Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams 
of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that 
once spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and 
lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson; of that 
gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the 
Susquehanna; and of those various nations that flour- 
ished about the Potomac and the Rappahannock, and 
that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. 
They will vanish like a vapor from the face of the earth; 
their very history will be lost in forgetfulness; and ''the 
places that now know them will know them no more for 
ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them 
should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the 
poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, 
like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. 
But should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs 
and wretchedness; should he tell how they were invaded, 
corrupted, despoiled, driven from their native abodes 
and the sepulchres of their fathers, hunted like wild 
beasts about the earth, and sent down with violence and 
butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn with 
horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indig- 
nation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. — '*We 
are driven back," said an old warrior, ''until we can re- 
treat no farther — our hatchets are broken, our bows are 
snapped, our fires are nearly extinguished : — a little longer, 
and the white man will cease to persecute us — for we 
shall cease to exist!" 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look: 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook: 
Train 'd from his tree-rock 'd cradle to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell, 

It is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated 
of the discovery and settlement of America, have not 
given us more particular and candid accounts of the. re- 
markable characters that flourished in savage life. The 
scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of pecu- 
liarity and interest; they furnish us with nearer glimpses 
of human nature, and show what man is in a compara- 
tively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. 
There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting 
upon these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature; 
in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sen- 
timent, and perceiving those generous and romantic qual- 
ities which have been artificially cultivated by society, 
vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnifi- 
cence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed al- 
most the existence, of man depends so much upon the 
opifiion of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a stud- 
ied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native char- 
acter are refined away, or softened down by the levelling 

20 



306 T^HE SKETCH-BOOK 

influence of what is termed good-breeding; and he prac- 
tises so many petty deceptions, and affects so many gen- 
erous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it 
is difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial char- 
acter. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the re- 
straints and refinements of polished life, and, in a great 
degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the im- 
pulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; 
and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, 
grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, 
where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradi- 
cated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling ver- 
dure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would study 
nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the 
forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and 
dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a 
volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, 
with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and 
their wars with the settlers of New England. It is pain- 
ful to perceive even from these partial narratives, how 
the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of 
the aborigines; how easily the colonists were moved to 
hostility by the lust of conquest; how merciless and exter- 
minating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks 
at the idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted 
from the earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of 
nature's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled 
in the dust! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 
warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massa- 
chusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distin- 
guished of a number of contemporary Sachems who 
reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wam- 
panoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the 
first settlement of New England; a band of native un- 
taught heroes, who made the most generous struggle of 
which human nature is capable; fighting to the last gasp 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 307 

in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or 
a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and 
fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have 
left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, 
but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of 
tradition, ^ 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called 
by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the 
New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, 
their situation was to the last degree gloomy and dis- 
heartening. Few in number, and that number rapidly 
perishing away through sickness and hardships; sur- 
rounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes; ex- 
posed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the 
vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate; their minds were 
filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved 
them from sinking into despondency but the strong ex- 
citement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situa- 
tion they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of 
the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a 
great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of 
the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them 
from his territories, into which they had intruded, he 
seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friend- 
ship, and extended towards them the rites of primitive 
hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settle- 
ment of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of 
followers, entered into a solemn league of peace and 
amity; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to 
secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. What- 
ever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the 
integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been im- 
peached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend 
of the white men; suffering them to extend their posses- 
sions, and to strengthen themselves in the land; and be- 

1 While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is 
informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an 
heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. 



308 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

traying no jealousy of their increasing power and pros- 
perity. Shortly before his death he came once more to 
New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for.the purpose of 
renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his 
posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the rehg- 
ion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the 
missionaries; and stipulated that no further attempt 
should be made to draw off his people from their ancient 
faith; but, finding the English obstinately opposed to 
any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. 
Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, 
Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the 
English), to the residence of a principal settler, recom- 
mending mutual kindness and confidence; and entreat- 
ing that the same love and amity which had existed be- 
tween the white men and himself might be continued 
afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem 
died in peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers 
before sorrow came upon his tribe; his children remained 
behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of 
a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of 
his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy 
and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his in- 
dignation; and he beheld with uneasiness their extermi- 
nating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed 
soon to incur their hostiUty, being accused of plotting 
with the Narragansets to rise against the English and 
drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether 
this accusation was warranted by facts or was grounded 
on mere suspicion. It is evident, however, by the vio- 
lent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that they 
had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid in- 
crease of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsider- 
ate in their treatment of the natives. They despatched 
an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring 
him before their courts. He was traced to his woodland 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 



309 



haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, where he was 
reposing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after the 
toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and the 
outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon 
the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw 
him into a raging fever. He was permitted to return 
home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his 
reappearance; but the blow he had received was fatal, 
and before he had reached his home he fell a victim to 
the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King 
PhiHp, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his 
lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with 
his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him 
an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was 
accused of having always cherished a secret and impla- 
cable hostility towards the whites. Such may very prob- 
ably, and very naturally, have been the case. He con- 
sidered them as originally but mere intruders into the 
country, who had presumed upon indulgence, and were 
extending an influence baneful to savage life. He saw 
the whole race of his countrymen melting before them 
from the face of the earth; their territories slipping from 
their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered 
and dependent. It may be said that the soil was origi- 
nally purchased by the settlers; but who does not know 
the nature of Indian purchases, in the early periods of colo- 
nization? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains 
through their superior adroitness in traffic; and they 
gained vast accessions of territory by easily provoked 
hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice in- 
quirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury 
may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts 
are all by which he judges; and it was enough for Philip 
to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans his 
countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they 
were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 
But whatever may have been his feelings of general 



310 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment 
of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, re- 
newed the contract with the settlers, and resided peace- 
ably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by 
the English, Mount Hope,^ the ancient seat of dominion 
of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first 
but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and sub- 
stance; and he was at length charged with attempting to 
instigate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, 
by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their 
oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign 
the proper credit due to these early accusations against 
the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an 
aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, that 
gave weight and importance to every idle tale. .Inform- 
ers abounded where talebearing met with countenance 
and reward; and the sword was readily unsheathed when 
its success was certain, and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is 
the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, 
whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial 
education which he had received among the settlers. He 
changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, 
with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. 
He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential sec- 
retary and counsellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and 
protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adver- 
sity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his 
service and went over to the whites; and, in order to gain 
their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting 
against their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. 
Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be exam- 
ined, but nothing was proved against them. The set- 
tlers, however, had now gone too far to retract; they had 
previously determined that Philip was a dangerous neigh- 
bor; they had pubhcly evinced their distrust; and had 
done enough to insure his hostility; according, therefore, 
1 Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 311 

to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruc- 
tion had become neces,sary to their security. Sausaman, 
the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards found 
dead, in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of 
his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and 
counsellor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, 
on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were 
condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious pun- 
ishment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasper- 
ated the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen 
thus at his very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, 
and he determined to trust himself no longer in the power 
of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken- 
hearted brother still rankled in his mind; and he had a 
further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a 
great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after manfully 
facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, ex- 
culpating himself from a charge of conspiracy-, and receiv- 
ing assurances of amity, had been perfidiously despatched 
at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fight- 
ing men about him; persuaded all strangers that he could, 
to join his cause; sent the women and children to the 
Narragansets for safety; and wherever he appeared, was 
continually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust 
and irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them 
in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, 
grew mischievous, and committed various petty depre- 
dations. In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired 
on and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open 
hostilities; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of 
their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through 
the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy 
times we meet with many indications of the diseased 
state of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstrac- 
tion, and the wildness of their situation, among track- 



312 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

less forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists 
to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imagina- 
tions with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spec- 
trology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. 
The troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, 
we are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which 
forerun great and public calamities. The perfect form 
of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, 
which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a '* pro- 
digious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and 
other towns in their neighborhood, 'Svas heard the re- 
port of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the 
earth and a considerable echo.''^ Others were alarmed 
on a still, sunshiny morning by the discharge of guns and 
muskets; bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the 
noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass 
away to the westward; others fancied that they heard 
the galloping of horses over their heads; and certain 
monstrous births, which took place about the time, filled 
the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. 
Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be as- 
cribed to natural phenomena: to the northern lights 
which occur vividly in those latitudes; the meteors which 
explode in the air; the casual rushing of a blast through 
the top branches of the forest; the crash of fallen trees or 
disrupted rocks; and to those other uncouth sounds and 
echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely 
amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. 
These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, 
may have been exaggerated by the love for the marvel- 
lous, and listened to with that avidity with which we de- 
vour whatever is fearful and mysterious. The univer- 
sal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the grave 
record made of them by one of the learned men of the 
day, are strongly characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too 
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men 
1 The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 313 

and savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted 
with superior skill and success; but with a wastefulness 
of the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of 
their antagonists : on the part of the Indians it was waged 
with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who 
had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, de- 
pendence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clerg3^man of the time; who dwells with horror and indig- 
nation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifi- 
able, whilst he mentions with applause the most san- 
guinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a 
murderer and a traitor; without considering that he was 
a true born prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his 
subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family; to retrieve 
the tottering power of his line; and to deliver his native 
land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such 
had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, 
and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have 
been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that 
actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere suc- 
cession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. 
Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess 
of Philip; and wherever, in the prejudiced and passion- 
ate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive 
at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, 
a fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and 
hardship, and an unconquerable resolution, that com- 
mand our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless 
forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost 
impervious to any thing but a wild beast, or an Indian. 
Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm ac- 
cumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the 
thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and 
place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the 



314 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

villages. There were now and then indications of these 
impending ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists 
with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant 
gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, 
where there was known to be no white man; the cattle 
which had been wandering in the woods would some- 
times return home wounded; or an Indian or two would 
be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and sud- 
denly disappearing; as the lightning will sometimes be 
seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is 
brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by 
the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miracu- 
lously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, 
would be lost to all search or inquiry, until he again 
emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the country 
desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps 
or morasses, which extend in some parts of New England; 
composed of loose bogs of deep black mud; perplexed 
with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and 
mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugu- 
brious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled 
mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them almost im- 
practicable to the white man, though the Indian could 
thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into 
one of these; the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was 
Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The Eng- 
lish did not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into 
these dark and frightful recesses, where they might per- 
ish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. 
They therefore invested the entrance to the Neck, and 
began to build a fort, with the thought of starving out 
the foe; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on 
a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of the night, 
leaving the women and children behind; and escaped 
away to the westward, kindling the flames of war among 
the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, 
and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 315 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- 
hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exag- 
gerated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in 
darkness; whose coming none could foresee, and against 
which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole 
country abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed 
almost possessed of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of the 
widely-extended frontier an irruption from the forest 
took place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many super- 
stitious notions also were circulated concerning him. He 
was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an 
old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and 
who assisted him by her charms and incantations. This 
indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs; either 
through their own credulity, or to act upon that of their 
followers, and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer 
over Indiail superstition has been fully evidenced in re- 
cent instances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Po- 
casset, his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His 
forces had been thinned by repeated fights, and he had 
lost almost the whole of his resources. In this time of 
adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief 
Sachem, of all the Narragansets. He was the son and 
heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already 
mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of 
conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the per- 
fidious instigations of the settlers. ''He was the heir," 
says the old chronicler, "of all his father's pride and inso- 
lence, as well as of his malice towards the English;" — he 
certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the 
legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he had for- 
borne to take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he 
received Philip and his broken forces with open arms; 
and gave them the most generous countenance and sup- 
port. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the 
English; and it was determined to strike a signal blow 
that should involve both the Sachems in one common 



316 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

ruin. A great force was, therefore, gathered togethei* 
from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and 
was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of 
winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, 
could be traversed with comparative facility, and would 
no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the 
Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the in- 
firm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong 
fortress; where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the 
flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the In- 
dians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or 
kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp; 
it was constructed with a degree of judgment and skill 
vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian 
fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of these 
two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came 
upon the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and 
tumultuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first 
attack, and several of their bravest officers were shot 
down in the act of storming the fortress sword in hand. 
The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodg- 
ment was effected. The Indians were driven from one 
post to another. They disputed their ground inch by 
inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their 
veterans were cut to pieces; and after a long and bloody 
battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviv- 
ing warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in 
the thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort; the 
whole was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the wo- 
men and the children perished in the flames. This last 
outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The 
neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage and 
despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they beheld 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 317 

the destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agoniz- 
ing cries of their wives and offspring. ''The burning of 
the wigwams/' says a contemporary writer, ''the shrieks 
and cries of the women and children, and the yelling of 
the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting 
scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." 
The same writer cautiously adds, "they were in much 
doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether 
burning their enemies alive could be consistent with 
humanity, and the benevolent principles of the Gospel."^ 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy 
of particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of 
the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal 
defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause 
which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, 
offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, 
and declared that "he would fight it out to the last man, 
rather than become a servant to the English." His 
home being destroyed; his country harassed and laid 
waste by the incursions of the conquerors; he was obliged 
to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut; where 
he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western 
Indians, and laid waste several of the English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expe- 
dition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Sea- 
conck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure 
seed corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This 
little band of adventurers had passed safely through the 
Pequod country, and were in the centre of the Narra- 
ganset, resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket River, 
when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. 
Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 
despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill, 
to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English 
and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless 
1 MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 



318 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

terror past their chieftain, without stopping to inform 
him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who 
did the same. He then sent two more, one of whom, 
hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that 
the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw 
there was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted 
to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly pur- 
sued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest of the 
English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his 
heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced 
coat and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to 
be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair, that, as he after- 
wards confessed, ''his heart and his bowels turned within 
him, and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized 
by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, 
he made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of 
body and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner 
the whole pride of his spirit arose within him; and from 
that moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his ene- 
mies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince- 
like heroism. Being questioned by one of the English 
who first came up with him, and who had not attained 
his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, look- 
ing with lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, 
replied, ''You are a child — you cannot understand mat- 
ters of war — let your brother or your chief come — him 
will I answer. '^ 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, 
yet he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send 
any proposals of the kind to the great body of his subjects; 
saying, that he knew none of them would comply. Be- 
ing reproached with his breach of faith towards the whites; 
his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 319 

nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail; and his threat 
that he would burn the English alive in their houses; he 
disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that 
others were as forward for the war as himself, and ''he 
desired to hear no more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of 
the generous and the brave; but Canonchet was an In- 
dian; a being towards whom war had no courtesy, human- 
ity no law, religion no compassion — he was condemned 
to die. The last words of him that are recorded, are 
w^orthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence of 
death was passed upon him, he observed ''that he liked 
it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he 
had spoken any thing unworthy of himself." His ene- 
mies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at 
Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King 
Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head 
of war, by stirring up the Mohawks to take arms; but 
though possessed of the native talents of a statesman, 
his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his en- 
lightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill 
began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. 
The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of 
power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some 
were suborned by the whites; others fell victims to hun- 
ger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which 
they were harassed. His stores were all captured; his 
chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes; 
his uncle was shot down by his side; his sister was carried 
into captivity; and in one of his narrow escapes he was 
compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the 
mercy of the enemy. "His ruin," says the historian, 
"being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not pre- 
vented, but augmented thereby; being himself made ac- 
quainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the 



320 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

captivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his 
subjects, bereavement of all family relations, and being 
stripped of all outward comforts, before his own life 
should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes^ his own follow- 
ers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him 
they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through 
treachery a number of his faithful adherents, the sub- 
jects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near 
kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into 
the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at 
the time, and attempted to make her escape by crossing a 
neighboring river: either exhausted by swimming, or 
starved by cold and hunger, she was found dead and 
naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not 
at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, 
where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no 
protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was 
affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her 
corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly venge- 
ance; the head was severed from the body and set upon a 
pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her 
captive subjects. They immediately recognized the fea- 
tures of. their unfortunate queen, and were so affected at 
this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they broke forth 
into the most ''horrid and diaboHcal lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treach- 
ery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce 
him to despondency. It is said that ''he never rejoiced 
afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The 
spring of hope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was 
extinguished — he looked around, and all was danger and 
darkness; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could 
bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who 
still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy 
Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the 
ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 321 

like a spectre, among the scenes of former power and pros- 
perity, now bereft of home, of family and friend. There 
needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situa- 
tion, than that furnished by the homely pen of the chron- 
icler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader 
in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. '' Philip," 
he says, ''like a savage wild beast, having been hunted 
by the English forces through the woods, above a hun- 
dred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to 
his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a 
few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a 
prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came 
by divine permission to execute vengeance upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a 
sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture 
him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, 
brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquir- 
ing a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness 
of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed — 
crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to 
grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience 
a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. 
Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but 
great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission 
awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one 
of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. 
The brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge 
betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white 
men and Indians were immediately despatched to the 
swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and 
despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they 
had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five 
of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet; all resis- 
tance was vain; he rushed forth from his covert, and made 
a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the 
heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate 
King Philip; persecuted while hving, slandered and dis- 
21 



322 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the 
prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we 
may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty char- 
acter sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and re- 
spect for his memory. We' find that, amidst all the har- 
assing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, 
he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and 
paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of 
friendship. The captivity of his ''beloved wife and only 
son " are mentioned with exultation as causing him poi- 
gnant misery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly 
recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treach- 
ery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose af- 
fections he had confided, is said to have desolated his 
heart, and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. 
He was a patriot attached to his native soil — a prince 
true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs — a 
soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fa- 
tigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and 
ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of 
heart, and with an untamable love of natural liberty, he 
preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests or 
in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and mo- 
rasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submission, 
and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury 
of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold 
achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior^ 
and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the 
historian; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native 
land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid 
darkness and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep 
his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, 
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English more 
excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving 
ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this way they 
have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but 
nations; and, in their fondness for pushing a joke, they 
have not spared even themselves. One would think that, 
in personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture 
something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is char- 
acteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of 
their love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they 
have embodied their national oddities in the figure of a 
sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, 
red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. 
Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting 
their most private foibles in a laughable point of view; 
and have been so successful in their deUneations, that 
there is scarcely a being in actual existence more abso- 
lutely present to the public mind than that eccentric 
personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character 



324 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the 
nation; and thus to give reality to what at first may have 
been painted in a great measure from the imagination. 
Men are apt to acquire pecuharities that are continually 
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem 
wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they 
have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the 
broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. 
Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism 
an apology for their prejudice or grossness; and this I 
have especially noticed among those truly homebred and 
genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond 
the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little 
uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, 
he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks 
his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable 
burst of passion about trifles, he observes, that John Bull 
is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a 
moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarse- 
ness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements, 
he thanks heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John 
Bull, and has no relish for frippery and nicknacks. His 
very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay 
extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea 
of munificence — for John is always more generous than 
wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to 
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict 
himself of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have 
suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself 
to the nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to 
each other; and a stranger who wishes to study English 
peculiarities, may gather much valuable information 
from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhib- 
ited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, how- 
ever, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are contin- 
ually throwing out new portraits, and presenting different 



JOHN BULL 325 

aspects from different points of view; and, often as he 
has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give 
a sHght sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright mat- 
ter-of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him 
than rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature, 
but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in 
humor more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay; melan- 
choly rather than morose; can easily be moved to a sud- 
den tear, or surprised into a broad laugh; but he loathes 
sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a 
boon companion, if you allow him to have his humor, 
and to talk about himself; and he will stand by a friend 
in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he may 
be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propen- 
sity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded 
personage, who thinks not merely for himself and family, 
but for all the country round, and is most generously 
disposed to be everybody's champion. He is continually 
volunteering his services to settle his neighbors' affairs, 
and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter 
of consequence without asking his advice; though he sel- 
dom engages in any friendly office of the kind without 
finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties, and 
then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily 
took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defence, 
and having accomplished himself in the use of his limbs 
and his weapons, and become a perfect master at boxing 
and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever 
since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most 
distant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to 
fumble with the head of his cudgel, and consider whether 
his interest or honor does not require that he should med- 
dle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his relations of 
pride and policy so completely over the whole country, 
that no event can take place, without infringing some of 
his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his lit- 



326 "l^I^E SKETCH-BOOK 

tie domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every 
direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, 
who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a 
fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his 
repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfuUy from 
his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fel- 
low at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the 
midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, how- 
ever, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray; he 
always goes into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it 
grumbling even when victorious; and though no one 
fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested point, 
yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the recon- 
ciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking 
of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all 
that they have been quarrelling about. It is not, there- 
fore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard 
against, as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him 
out of a farthing; but put him in a good humor, and you 
may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He 
is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm 
uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding 
calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad; of 
pulling out a long purse; flinging his money bravely about 
at boxing matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying 
a high head among ''gentlemen of the fancy:" but imme- 
diately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be 
taken with violent qualms of economy; stop short at the 
most trivial expenditure; talk desperately of being ruined 
and brought upon the parish; and, in such moods, will 
not pay the smallest tradesman's bill, without violent 
altercation. He is in fact the most punctual and discon- 
tented paymaster in the world; drawing his coin out of 
his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance; paying to 
the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea 
with a growl. 



JOHN BULL 327 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy 
is of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise 
how he may afford to be extravagant; for he will begrudge 
himself a beefsteak and pint of port one day, that he 
may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and 
treat all his neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive: 
not so much from any great outward parade, as from the 
great consumption of solid beef and pudding; the vast 
number of followers he feeds and clothes; and his singu- 
lar disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a 
most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his ser- 
vants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little 
now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before 
his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every 
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. 
His house-servants are well paid, and pampered, and have 
little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance 
slowly before his state carriage; and his house-dogs sleep 
quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a house- 
breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, 
gray with age, and of a most venerable, though weather- 
beaten appearance. It has been built upon no regular 
plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in var- 
ious tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of 
Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone 
and old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of 
that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, 
and dusky chambers; and though- these have been partially 
lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places 
where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have 
been made to the original edifice from time to time, and 
great alterations have taken place; towers and battle- 
ments have been erected during wars and tumults: wings 
built in time of peace; and out-houses, lodges, and offices, 
run up according to the whim or convenience of different 



328 "THE SKETCH-BOOK 

generations, until it has become one of the most spacious, 
rambUng tenements imaginable. An entire wing is taken 
up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that must have 
been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of 
having been altered and simplified at various periods, 
has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its walls within 
are storied with the monuments of John's ancestors; and 
it is ,snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined 
chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to church 
services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of their 
duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; 
but he is stanch in. his religion, and piqued in his zeal, 
from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have 
been erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, 
with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large 
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a 
most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well- 
bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in 
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, 
rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use 
in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their 
prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, 
and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the 
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich, 
though faded tapestry, unwieldly furniture, and loads of 
massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample 
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting 
halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, 
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but 
a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms 
apparently deserted and time-worn; and towers and tur- 
rets that are tottering to decay; so that in high winds 
there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the 
household. 



JOHN BULL 320 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled; and to have some of the useless 
parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with 
their materials; but the old gentleman always grows 
testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent 
house — that it is tight and weather proof, and not to be 
shaken by tempests — that it has stood for several hundred 
years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble down now — 
that as to its being inconvenient, his family is accustomed 
to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable 
without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular 
construction, these result from its being the growth of 
centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every 
generation — that an old family, like his, requires a large 
house to dwell in; new, upstart families may live in mod- 
ern cottages and snug boxes; but an old English family 
should inhabit an old English manor-house. If you point 
out any part of the building as superfluous, he insists 
that it is material to the strength or decoration of the rest, 
and the harmony of the whole; and swears that the parts 
are so built into each other, that if you pull dow^n one, 
you run the risk of having the whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dis- 
position to protect and patronize. He thinks it indis- 
pensable to the dignity of an ancient and honorable fam- 
ily, to be bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten 
up by dependents; and so, partly from pride, and partly 
from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule ahvays to give 
shelter and maintenance to his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable 
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old 
retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which 
he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital 
of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too 
large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of 
use in housing some useless personage. Groups of vet- 
eran bee eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the 
buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawl- 



330 'J'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

ing over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning 
themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office 
and out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries 
and their families; for they are amazingly prolific, and 
when they die off, are sure to leave John a legacy of hun- 
gry mouths to be provided for. A mattock cannot be 
struck against the most mouldering tumble-down tower, 
but out pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the gray 
pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at 
John's expense all his life, and makes the most grievous 
outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the head of 
a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal 
that John's honest heart never can withstand; so that a 
man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all 
his life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard 
in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze 
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a 
worthy example of grateful recollection, which if some of 
his neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their dis- 
credit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to point 
out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good 
qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with some 
little vainglory, of the perilous adventures and hardy ex- 
ploits through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for 
family usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical 
extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gipsies; yet he 
will not suffer them to be driven off, because they have 
infested the place time out of mind, and been regular 
poachers upon every generation of the family. He will 
scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the great 
trees that surround the house, lest it should molest the 
rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls have 
taken possession of the dovecote; but they are hereditary 
owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly 
choked up every chimney with their nests; martins build 



JOHN BULL 331 

in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter about the towers, 
and perch on every weather-coclc; and old gray-headed 
rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running 
in and out of their holes undauntedly in broad daylight. 
In short, John has such a reverence for every thing that 
has been long in the family, that he will not hear even of 
abuses being reformed, because they are good old family 
abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse; and as he prides himself 
on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to main- 
tain his credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him 
great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, 
has been increased by the altercations and heart-burnings 
which are continually taking place in his family. His 
children have been brought up to different callings, and 
are of different ways of thinking; and as they have always 
been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail 
to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present 
posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the 
race, and are clear that the old establishment should be 
kept up in all its state, whatever may be the cost; others, 
who are more prudent and considerate, entreat the old 
gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole 
system of housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He 
has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to their 
opinions, but their wholesome advice has been completely 
defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. 
This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, 
who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses — is the 
orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the 
poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear 
any of his brothers mention reform or retrenchment, 
than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, 
and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once 
going nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; 
hectors the old man about his spendthrift practices; ridi- 
cules his tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the 



332 "THE SKETCH-BOOK 

old servants' out of doors; give the broken-down horses 
to the hounds; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a 
field-preacher in his place — nay, that the whole family 
mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain 
one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at 
every social entertainment and family festivity, and 
skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an equip- 
age drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining 
of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend 
all his pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and 
even runs up scores for the liquor over which he preaches 
about his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting 
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temj^erament. He 
has become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the 
mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a 
brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter 
is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having 
grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent 
scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that 
John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer 
who has served abroad, but is at present living at home, 
on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentle- 
man, right or wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, 
roystering life; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out 
sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares to 
array himself against paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, 
and are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. 
People begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever 
his affairs are mentioned. They all ''hope that matters 
are not so bad with him as represented ; but when a man's 
own children begin to rail at his extravagance, things 
must be badly managed. They understand he is mort- 
gaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling 
with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old 
gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast; indeed, 
they never knew any good come of this fondness for 



JOHN BULL 



333 



hunting, racing, revelling and prize-fighting. In short, 
Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has been in the 
family a long time; but, for all that, they have known 
many finer estates come to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary 
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor 
man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, 
and smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of 
late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten 
apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied 
out so bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed 
before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a main- 
sail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and 
wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up the 
boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three- 
cornered hat on one side; flourishing his cudgel, and 
bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump 
upon the ground; looking every one sturdily in the face, 
and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song; he 
now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with 
his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, 
and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, 
which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet for 
all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as 
ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or 
concern, he takes fire in an instant; swears that he is the 
richest and stoutest fellow in the country; talks of laying 
out large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate; 
and with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, 
longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff. 
Though there may be something rather whimsical in all 
this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation 
without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd 
humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted 
old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as 
he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his 



334 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his own; 
all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very* faults 
smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extrav- 
agance savors of his generosity; his quarrelsomeness of 
his courage; his credulity of his open faith; his vanity of 
his pride; and his bluntness of his sincerity. They are 
all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He 
is like his own oak, rough without, but sound and solid 
within; whose bark abounds with excrescences in pro- 
portion to the growth and grandeur of the timber; and 
whose branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring 
in the least storm, from their very magnitude and luxuri- 
ance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his 
old family mansion that is extremely poetical and pictur- 
esque; and, as long as it can be rendered comfortably 
habitable, I should almost tremble to see it meddled with, 
during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some 
of his advisers are no doubt good architects, that might 
be of service; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, 
when they had once got to work with their mattocks on 
this venerable edifice, would never stop until they had 
brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried themselves 
among the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's present 
troubles may teach him more prudence in future. That 
he may cease to distress his mind about other people's 
affairs; that he ma}^ give up the fruitless attempt to pro- 
mote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happi- 
ness of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain 
quietly at home; gradually get his house into repair; cul- 
tivate his rich estate according to his fancy; husband his 
income — if he thinks proper; bring his unruly children 
into order — if he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient 
prosperity; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, 
an honorable, and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

May no woife howle; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth! but, Uke a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote 
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the 
country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situ- 
ation of which was beautifully rural and retired. There 
was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, 
not to be found in the villages which lie on the great 
coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, and, 
having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the 
neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon 
led me to the church, which stood at a little distance from 
the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, 
its old tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that 
only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray 
wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered through 
the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening. The 
early part of the day had been dark and showery, but in 
the afternoon it had cleared up; and though sullen clouds 
still hung overhead, yet there was a broad tract of golden 
sky in the west, from which the setting sun gleamed 
through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature with a 



336 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a 
good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the 
world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an as- 
surance that he will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and 
was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted 
hour, on past scenes and early friends — on those who were 
distant and those who were dead — and indulging in that 
kind of melancholy fancying, which has in it something 
sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then, the 
stroke of a bell from the neighboring tower fell on my 
ear; its tones were in unison with the scene, and, instead 
of jarring, chimed in with my feelings; and it was some 
time before I recollected that it must be tolling the knell 
of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green; it wound slowly along a lane; was lost, and reap- 
peared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed 
the place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by 
young girls, dressed in white; and another, about the age 
of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white 
flowers; a token that the deceased was a young and un- 
married female. The corpse was followed by the parents. 
They were a venerable couple of the better order of peas- 
antry. The father seemed to repress his feelings; but his 
fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face, 
showed the struggle that was passing within. His wife 
hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive 
bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flow- 
ers, with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat 
which the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed 
some one he has loved to the tomb? but when performed 
over the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low 
in the bloom of existence — what can be more affecting? 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 337 

At that simple, but most solemn consignment of the body 
to the grave — ''Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to 
dust!" — the tears of the youthful companions of the de- 
ceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to 
struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the 
assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the 
Lord; but the mother only thought of her child as a flower 
of the field cut down and withered in the midst of its 
sweetness; she was like Rachel, ''mourning over her 
children, and would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of 
the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often 
been told. She had been the beauty and pride of the 
village. Her father had once been an opulent farmer, 
but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only 
child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity 
of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pastor, 
the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good man 
watched over her education with paternal care; it was 
limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to 
move; for he only sought to make her an ornament to her 
station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness 
and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from 
all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace 
and delicacy of character, that accorded with the fragile 
loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender 
plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the 
hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowl- 
edged by her companions, but without envy; for it was 
surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and winning 
kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her: 

"This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which 
22 



338 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had 
its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up 
some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. 
These, indeed, had been promoted by its present pastor, 
who was a lover of old customs, and one of those simple 
Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting 
joy on earth and good-will among mankind. Under his 
auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the centre 
of the village, green; on May-day it was decorated with 
garlands and streamers; and a queen or lady of the May 
was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, 
and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque 
situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic 
fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. 
Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose 
regiment had ^been .recently quartered in the neighbor- 
hood. He was charmed with the native taste that per- 
vaded this village pageant; but, above all, with the dawn- 
ing loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village 
favorite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and 
smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence 
and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled 
him readily to make her acquaintance; he gradually .won 
his way into her intimacy; and paid his court to her in 
that unthinking way in which young officers are too apt 
to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. 
He never even talked of love: but there are modes of 
making it more eloquent than language, and which con- 
vey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam 
of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tendernesses 
which emanate from every word, and look, and action — 
these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be 
felt and understood, but never described. Can we won- 
der that they should readily win a heart, young, guile- 
less, and susceptible? As to her, she loved almost uncon- 
sciously; she scarcely inquired what was the growing 
passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 339 

or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked 
not to the future. When present, his looks and words 
occup2ed her whole attention; when absent, she thought 
but of what had passed at their recent interview She 
would wander with him through the green lanes and rural 
scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties 
m nature; he talked in the language of poUte and culti- 
vated hfe, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of 
romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between 
the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gal- 
lant figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of 
his military attire, might at first have charmed her eve- 
but It was not these that had captivated her heart Her 
attachment had something in it of idolatry. She looked 
up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in 
his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate 
and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen percep- 
tion of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinc- 
tions of rank and fortune she thought nothing; it was the 
difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from 
those of the rustic society to which she had been accus- 
tomed that elevated him in her opinion. She would 
listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look of 
mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with enthu- 
siasm; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid ad- 
miration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would 
sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthi- 
hgss. 

Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion 
was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had 
begun he connection in levity; for he had often heard 
his brother officers boast of their village conquests, and 
thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his repu- 
tation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youth- 
ful fervor His heart had not yet been rendered suffi- 
ciently cold and se fish by a wandering and a dissipated 
life. It caught fire from the very flame it sought to kin- 



340 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

die; and before he was aware of the nature of his situa- 
tion, be became really in love. 

What was he to do? There were the old obstacles 
which so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. 
His rank in life — the prejudices of titled connections — 
his dependence upon a proud and unyielding father — 
all forbade him to think of matrimony: — but when he 
looked down upon this innocent being, so tender and 
confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a blame- 
lessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks 
that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did 
he try to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples 
of men of fashion; and to chill the glow of generous senti- 
ment with that cold derisive levity with which he had 
heard them talk of female virtue : whenever he came into 
her presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious 
but impassive charm of virgin purity in whose hallowed 
sphere no guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to re- 
pair to the continent completed the confusion of his mind. 
He remained for a short time in a state of the most pain- 
ful irresolution; he hesitated to communicate the tid- 
ings, until the day for marching was at hand ; when he 
gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening 
ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. 
It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked 
upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept 
with the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to 
his bosom, and kissed the tears from her soft cheek; nor 
did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of 
mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the ca- 
resses of affection. He was naturally impetuous; and the 
sight of beauty, apparently yielding in his arms, the con- 
fidence of his power over her, and the dread of losing her 
for ever, all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings — 
he ventured to propose that she should leave her home, 
and be the companion of his fortunes. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 341 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and 
faltered at his own baseness; but so innocent of mind was 
his intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to com- 
prehend his meaning; and why she should leave her native 
village, and the humble roof of her parents. When at 
last the nature of his proposal flashed upon her pure 
mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep — she 
did not break forth into reproach — she said not a word — 
but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper; gave him a 
look of anguish that pierced to his very soul; and clasp- 
ing her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's 
cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and re- 
pentant. It is uncertain what might have been the re- 
sult of the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts 
been diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, 
new pleasures, and new companions, soon dissipated his 
self-reproach, and stifled his tenderness; yet, amidst the 
stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of ar- 
mies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would some- 
times steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village 
simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath along the 
silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little 
village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and 
listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious 
affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the 
destruction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. 
Paintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender 
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melan- 
choly. She had beheld from her window the march of 
the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover 
borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and 
trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She strained a last 
aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about 
his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze; he passed 
away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her all 
in darkness. 



342 • I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she 
had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like 
the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and 
brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. 
Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening sitting in 
the porch of the village church; and the milkmaids, re- 
turning from the fields, would now and then overhear 
her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. 
She became fervent in her devotions at church; and as 
the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with 
a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy 
diffuses round the form, they would make way for her, 
as for something spiritual, and, looking after her, would 
shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, 
but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver 
cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there 
seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever 
her gentle bosom had entertained resentment against her 
lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry 
passions; and in a moment of saddened tenderness, she 
penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in the 
simplest language, but touching from its very simplicity. 
She told him that she was dying, and did not conceal 
from him that his conduct was the cause. She even de- 
picted the sufferings which she had experienced: but con- 
cluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, until 
she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength so declined, that she could no 
longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the 
window, where, propped up in her chair, it. was her enjoy- 
ment to sit all day and look out upon the landscape. 
Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any one 
the malady that was preying on her heart. She never 
even mentioned her lover's name; but would lay her 
head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 343 

poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading blos- 
som of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it 
might again revive to freshness, and that the bright un- 
earthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might 
be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday 
afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was 
thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with 
it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which her 
own hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the 
Bible: it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the 
joys of heaven: it seemed to have diffused comfort and 
serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the 
distant village church; the bell had tolled for the even- 
ing service; the last villager was lagging into the porch; 
and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness 
peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on 
her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which 
pass so roughly over some faces, had given to hers the 
expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft 
blue eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover? — or 
were her thoughts wandering to that distant church- 
yard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman 
galloped to the cottage — he dismounted before the win- 
dow — the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk 
back in her chair: it was her repentant lover! He rushed 
into the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom; but her 
wasted form — her deathlike countenance — so wan, yet 
so lovely in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, and 
he threw himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint 
to rise — she attempted to extend her trembling hand — 
her lips rhoved as if she spoke, but no word was articu- 
lated — she looked down upon him with a smile of unutter- 
able tenderness, — and closed her eyes for ever! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this vil- 
lage story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious 



344 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

have little novelty to recommend them. In the present 
rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narra- 
tive, they may appear trite and insignificant, but they 
interested me strongly at the time; and, taken in connec- 
tion with the affecting ceremony which I had just wit- 
nessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many 
circumstances of a more striking nature. I have passed 
through the place since, and visited the church again, 
from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a win- 
try evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage; the 
church-yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind 
rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, how- 
ever, had been planted about the grave of the village 
favorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf 
uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There 
hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day 
of the funeral: the flowers were withered, it is true, but 
care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil 
their whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where 
art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of 
the spectator, but I have met with none that spoke more 
touchingly to my heart, than this simple but dehcate 
memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill. 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir. H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run 
away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring 
life, from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; and I 
suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gen- 
tlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams 
with angle rods in hand, may trace the origin of their 
passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. 
I recollect studying his '^Complete Angler" several years 
since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and 
moreover that we were all completely bitten with the 
angling mania. It was early in the year; but as soon as 
the weather was auspicious, and that the spring began 
to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand 
and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever 
Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of 
his equipments: being attired cap-a-pie for the enter- 
prise. He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed 
with half a hundred pockets; a pair of stout shoes, and 
leathern gaiters; a basket slung on one side for fish; a 
patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other incon- 



346 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

veniences, only to be found in the true angler's armory. 
Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of 
stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had 
never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of 
La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson; a most unfortunate place for 
the execution of those piscatory tactics which had been 
invented along the velvet margins of quiet English rivu- 
lets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish, among 
our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill 
the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Some- 
times it would leap down rocky shelves, making small 
cascades, over which the trees threw their broad balancing 
sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from 
the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. , 
Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the 
matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs; and, 
after this termagant career, would steal forth into open 
day with the most placid demure face imaginable; as I 
have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after fill- 
ing her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling 
out of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon 
all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such 
times, through some bosom of green meadow-land among 
the mountains: where the quiet was only interrupted by 
the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle 
among the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe 
from the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not 
angled above half an hour before I had completely ''sat- 
isfied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth 
of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something like 
poetry — a man must be born to it. I hooked myself 
instead of the fish; tangled my line in every tree; lost my 
bait; broke my rod; until I gave up the attempt in de- 



THE ANGLER 347 

spair, and passed the day under the trees, reading old 
Izaak; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest 
simphcity and rural feehng that had bewitched me, and 
not the passion for anghng. My companions, however, 
were more persevering in their delusion. I have them at 
this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of 
the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely 
fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising 
with hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely- 
invaded haunt; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously 
from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill- 
pond, in the gorge of the hills; the tortoise letting him- 
self slip sideways from off the stone or log on which he is 
sunning himself; and the panic-struck frog plumping in 
headlong as they approach, and spreading an alarm 
throughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and 
creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely 
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a 
lubberly country urchin came down from the hills with a 
rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, 
and, as Heaven shall help me! I believe, a crooked pin 
for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm — and in half an 
hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout 
the day! 

But, above all, I recollect, the ''good, honest, whole- 
some, hungry" repast, which we made under a beech- 
tree, just by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out of 
the side of a hill; and how, when it was over, one of the 
party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, 
while I lay on the grass and built castles in a bright pile 
of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear like 
mere egotism; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these 
recollections, which are passing like a strain of music 
over my mind, and have been called up by an agreeable 
scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a 
beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh 



348 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was 
attracted to a group seated on the margin. On approach- 
ing, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two 
rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a 
wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully 
patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and 
decently maintained. His face bore the marks of for- 
mer storms, but present fair weather; its furrows had been 
worn into an habitual smile; his iron-gray locks hung about 
his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored air of a 
constitutional philosopher who was disposed to take the 
world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged 
wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and 
I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish- 
pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The 
other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging 
gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The 
old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout which 
he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects 
were seasonable for bait; and was lecturing on the subject 
to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinite 
deference. I have a kind feeling towards all '^ brothers 
of the angler," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They 
are men he affirms, of a ''mild, sweet, and peaceable 
spirit;" and my esteem for them has been increased since 
I met with an old ''Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," 
in which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffen- 
sive fraternity. ''Take good hede," sayeth this honest 
little tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye open 
no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye 
shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetous- 
ness to the encreasing and sparing of your money only, 
but principally, for your solace and to cause the helth of 
your body and specyally of your soule."^ 

1 From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more 
industrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. 
— "For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will 
not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might let you of 



THE ANGLER 349 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler 
before me an exemplification of what I had read; and 
there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite 
drew me towards him. I could not but remark the gal- 
lant manner in which he stumped from one part of the 
brook to another; waving his rod in the air, to keep the 
line from dragging on the ground, or catching among the 
bushes; and the adroitness with which he would throw 
his fly to any particular place; sometimes skimming it 
lightly along a little rapid; sometimes casting it into one 
of those dark holes made by a twisted root or over-hanging 
bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the 
meanwhile he was giving instructions to his two disciples; 
showing them the manner in which they should handle 
their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface 
of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the in- 
structions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country 
around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of 
describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, 
close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where 
the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among 
fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that recorded 
in his work, was mild and sunshiny, with now and then a 
soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with 
diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and 
was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving 
instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost 
the whole day; wandering along the banks of the stream, 
and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, 
having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age; and I 
fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of 
displaying his piscatory lore; for who does not like now 
and then to play the sage? 

your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge ef- 
fectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall 
eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which is principall 
cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known," 



350 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had 
passed some years of his youth in America, particularly 
in Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had 
been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had 
afterwards experienced many ups and downs in hfe, until 
he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a 
cannon ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the 
only stroke of real good fortune he had ever experienced, 
for it got him a pension, which, together with some small 
paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly 
forty pounds. On this he retired to his native village, 
where he lived quietly and independently; and devoted 
the remainder of his life to the ''noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, 
and he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness 
and prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely 
buffeted about the world, he was satisfied that the world, 
in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been 
as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep 
that is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke 
of every nation with candor and kindness, appearing to 
look only on the good side of things: and, above all, he 
was almost the only man I had ever met with who had 
been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had. 
honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fault to 
his own door, and not to curse the country. The lad 
that was receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son 
and heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village 
inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and much 
courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of the place. 
In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had 
probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, 
and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we could 
forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and 
tortures inflicted on worms and insects, that tends to 
produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of 
mind. As the English are methodical even in their recre- 



THE ANGLER 35I 

ations, and. are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has 
been reduced among them to perfect rule and system. 
Indeed it is an amusement pecuUarly adapted to the 
mild and highly-cultivated scenery- of England, where 
every roughness has been softened away from the land- 
scape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid 
streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the 
bosom of this beautiful country; leading one through a 
diversity of small home scenery; sometimes winding 
through ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming along 
through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled 
with sweet-smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in 
sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capri- 
ciously away into shady retirements. The sweetness and 
serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the 
sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing; which 
are now and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a 
bird, the distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the 
vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water, and 
skimming transiently about its glassy surface. ''When 
I would beget content,'' says Izaak Walton, ''and increase 
confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of 
Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding 
stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, 
and those very many other little living creatures that are 
not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the 
goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 
I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the 
same innocent and happy spirit: 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 
And on the world and my Creator think: 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 



352 THE SKETCH-BOOK > 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. i 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place 
of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the 
village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to 
seek him out. I found him living in a small cottage, 
containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its 
method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the 
village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, w4th 
a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and 
adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cot- 
tage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a 
ship for a weather-cock. The interior was fitted up in a 
truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and convenience 
having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. 
A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the 
daytime, was lashed up so as to take but little room. 
From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship, 
of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, 
and a large sea-chest, formed the principal movables. 
About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as ''Ad- 
miral Hosier's Ghost," "All in the Downs," and ''TomBow- 
line," intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among which 
the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The 
mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells; over which 
hung a quadrant, flanked by two woodcuts of most bitter- 
looking naval commanders. His implements for angling 
were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the 
room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a 
work on angling, much worn, a Bible covered with can- 
vas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, 
and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 

1 J. Davors 



THE ANGLER 353 

and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educa- 
ted himself, in the course of one of his voyages; and which 
uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse brattUng 
tone of a veteran boatswain. The estabUshment re- 
minded me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; 
it was kept in neat order, every thing being ''stowed 
away" with the regularity of a ship of war; and he in- 
formed me that he ''scoured the deck every morning, 
and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking 
his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purr- 
ing soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing 
some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in the 
centre of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave 
me a history of his sport with as much minuteness as a 
general would talk over a campaign; being particularly 
animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a 
large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and 
wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine 
hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented 
old age; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being 
tempest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and 
quiet harbor in the evening of his days! His happiness, 
however, sprung from within himself, and was indepen- 
dent of external circumstances; for he had that inex- 
haustible good-nature, which is the most precious gift of 
Heaven; spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of 
thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in 
the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was 
a universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the 
tap-room; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, 
and, like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of 
strange lands, and ship-wrecks, and sea-fights. He was 
much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neigh- 
borhood; had taught several of them the art of angling; 
9,nd was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole 

23 



354 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being princi- 
pally passed about the neighboring streams, when the 
weather and season were favorable; and at other times 
he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle 
for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and 
flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, 
though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He 
had made it his particular request that when he died he 
should be buried in a green spot, which he could see from 
his seat in church, and which he had marked out ever 
since he was a boy, and had thought of when far from 
home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for the 
fishes — it was the spot where his father and mother had 
been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary; 
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this 
worthy ''brother of the angle;" who has made me more 
than ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall 
never be adroit in the practice of his art: and I will con- 
clude this rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak 
Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's master 
upon my reader, ''and upon all that are true lovers of 
virtue; and dare trust in his providence; and be quiet; 
and go a angling." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent 
the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion 
of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators 
the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently short- 
ened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas 
when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or 
rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but 
which is more generally and properly known by the name 
of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in 
former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands 
to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be 
that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely 
advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there 
is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, 
w^hich is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A 
small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough 
to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, 
or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound 
that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 



356 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

T recollect, that when a stripling, my first exploit in 
squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that 
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at 
noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was 
startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sab- 
bath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated 
by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, 
whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, 
and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, 
I know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long 
been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its 
rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 
all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influ- 
ence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the 
very atmosphere. Some say that the place was be- 
witched by a high German doctor, during the early days 
of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the 
prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there 
before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick 
Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under 
the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over 
the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a 
continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of mar- 
vellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and 
frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices 
in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local 
tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars 
shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than 
in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, 
with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite 
scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this en- 
chanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of 
all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on 
horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 357 

ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried 
away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during 
the revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon seen 
by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, 
as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not con- 
fined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no 
great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic 
historians of those parts, who have been careful in col- 
lecting and collating the floating facts concerning this 
spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been 
buried in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the 
scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that the 
rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the 
Hollow, like a midnight 'blast, is owing to his being be- 
lated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard 
before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary super- 
stition, which has furnished materials for many a wild 
story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, 
at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless 
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of 
the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one 
who resides there for a time. However wide awake they 
may have been before they entered that sleepy region, 
they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching in- 
fluence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative — to 
dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for 
it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and 
there embosomed in the great State of New-York, that 
population, manners, and customs, remain fixed; while 
the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is 
making such incessant changes in other parts of this 
restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are 
like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid 



358 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding 
quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic 
harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. 
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should 
not still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
tating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote 
period of American history, that is to say, some thirty 
years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod 
Crane; who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, 'Harried," 
in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the 
children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut; 
a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the 
mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
legions of frontier woodsmen and country school-masters. 
The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his per- 
son. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow 
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile 
out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, 
and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His 
head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large 
green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked 
like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to 
tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along 
the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bag- 
ging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken 
him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, 
or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, 
and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was 
most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe 
twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against 
the window shutters; so that, though a thief might get 
in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment 
in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 359 

eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but 
pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a 
brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree grow- 
ing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his 
pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard 
in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee-hive; 
interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of 
the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, perad- 
venture, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged 
some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. 
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore 
in mind the golden maxim, ''Spare the rod and spoil the 
child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not 
spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was 
one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the 
smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered 
justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking 
the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on 
those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that 
winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by 
with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied 
by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, 
wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 
birch. All this he called ''doing his duty by their 
parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisement without 
following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smart- 
ing urchin, that "he would remember it, and thank him 
for it the longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the com- 
panion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday 
afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, 
who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives 
for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. 
Indeed it behooved him to keep on good terms with his 
pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, 
and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 



360 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though 
lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help 
out his maintenance, he was, according to country cus- 
tom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of 
the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these 
he lived successively a week at a time; thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood, with all his wordly effects 
tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere 
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both 
useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasion- 
ally in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make 
hay; mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove 
the cows from pasture; and cut wood for the winter fire. 
He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute 
sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the 
school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. 
He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the 
children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion 
bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did 
hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a 
cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to 
take his station in front of the church gallery, with a 
band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he com- 
pletely carried away the palm from the parson. Cer- 
tain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be 
heard in that church, and which may even be heard half 
a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on 
a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately 
descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
divers little make-shifts in that ingenious way which is 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 361 

commonly denominated *'by hook and by crook/' the 
worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
thought, by all who understood nothing, of the labor of 
headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some impor- 
tance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being 
considered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of 
vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough 
country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to 
the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occa- 
sion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and 
the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 
meats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the 
smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure 
among them in the church-yard, between services on 
Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines 
that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their 
amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or saun- 
tering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the 
adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bump- 
kins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance 
and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 
travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
gossip from house to house; so that his appearance was 
always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, 
esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for 
he had read several books quite through, and was a per- 
fect master of Cotton Mather's history of New England 
witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and 
potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, 
and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordi- 
nary; and both had been increased by his residence in 
this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or mon- 
strous for his capacious swallow. It was often his de- 



362 'THE SKETCH-BOOK 

light, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to 
stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the 
little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and 
there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gather- 
ing dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere 
mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by 
swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farm- 
house where he happened to be quartered, every sound of 
nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited 
imagination; the moan of the whip-poor-wilH from the 
hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger 
of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the 
sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most 
vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, 
as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his 
path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came 
winging his blundering flight against him, the poor var- 
let was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he 
was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on 
such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away 
evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes; — and the good peo- 
ple of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an 
evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal 
melody, ''in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating 
from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they 
sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting 
and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their mar- 
vellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, 
and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted 
houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or 
galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called 
him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes 

1 The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It re- 
ceives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those 
words. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 363 

of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous 
sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier 
times of Connecticut; and would frighten them wofully 
with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and 
with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely 
turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of 
a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, 
of course, no spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly 
purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk home- 
wards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path 
amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! — 
With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray 
of light streaming across the waste fields from some dis- 
tant window ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub 
covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset 
his very path! — How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust 
beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest 
he should behold some uncouth being tramping close 
behind him! — and how often was he thrown into com- 
plete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the 
trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one 
of his nightly scourings! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though 
he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more 
than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely 
perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these 
evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in 
despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not 
been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to 
mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of 
witches put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one even- 
ing in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, 



364 "^HE SKETCH-BOOK 

was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a 
substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of 
fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting 
and rosy cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and uni- 
versally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast 
expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mix- 
ture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to 
set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure 
yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had 
brought over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of 
the olden time; and withal a provokingly short petticoat, 
to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country 
round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards 
the sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting 
a morsel soon found favor in his eyes; more especially 
after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old 
Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, 
contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, 
sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the bounda- 
ries of his own farm; but within those every thing was 
snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied 
with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself 
upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in 
which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the 
banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, 
fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of 
nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches 
over it; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the 
softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a 
barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, 
to a neighboring brook, that bubbled along among alders 
and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast 
barn, that might have served for a church; every window 
and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treas- 
ures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within 
it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 365 

twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some 
with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some 
with their heads under their wings, or buried in their 
bosoms, and others swelHng, and cooing, and bowing 
about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the 
roof. Sleek unwieldly porkers were grunting in the re- 
pose and abundance of their pens; whence saUied forth, 
now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the 
air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an 
adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regi- 
ments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, 
and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered house- 
wives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the 
barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a 
husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his 
burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness 
of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his 
feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family 
of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he 
had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In 
his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every 
roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, 
and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put 
to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a cover- 
let of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; 
and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married 
couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In 
the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of 
bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he be- 
held daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, 
and, perad venture, a necklace of savory sausages; and 
even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, 
in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quar- 
ter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while 
living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 



366 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, 
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which 
surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 
yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these do- 
mains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how 
they might be readily turned into cash, and the money 
invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle pal- 
aces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already 
reahzed his hopes, and presented to him the blooming 
Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on 
the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, 
with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld 
himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, 
setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows 
where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, 
with highridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the 
style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low 
projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, ca- 
pable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were 
hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and 
nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were 
built along the sides for summer use ; and a great spinning- 
wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the 
various uses to which this important porch might be 
devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod en- 
tered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion 
and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplen- 
dent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; 
in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the 
loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and 
peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled 
with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave 
him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed 
chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 367 

andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, gUs- 
tened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges 
and conch-shells decorated the mantel-piece; strings of 
various colored birds' eggs were suspended above it: a 
great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the 
room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, dis- 
played immense treasures of old silver and well-mended 
china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, 
and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, how- 
ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to 
the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any 
thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like 
easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had 
to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, 
and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady 
of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily 
as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas 
pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of 
course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to 
the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of 
whims and caprices, which were for ever presenting new 
difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a 
host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the 
numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her 
heart; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, 
but ready to fly out in the common cause against any 
new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roar- 
ing, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, ac- 
cording to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the 
hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of 
strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and 
double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, 
but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of 
fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and 



368 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of 
Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. He 
was famed for great knowledge and skill in horseman- 
ship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He 
was foremost at all races and cock-fights; and, with the 
ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, 
was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, 
and giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of 
no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a 
fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his 
composition; and, with all his overbearing roughness, 
there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. 
He had three or four boon companions, who regarded 
him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured 
the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment 
for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by 
a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and 
when the folks at a country gathering descried this well- 
known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad 
of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Some- 
times his crew would be heard dashing along past the 
farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a 
troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out 
of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry- 
scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, ''Ay, there 
goes Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked 
upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good 
will; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, oc- 
curred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and 
warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallan- 
tries, and though his amorous toyings were something 
like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet 
it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage 
his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for 
rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross 
a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse wag 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 369 

seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a 
sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, 
"sparking,'' within, all other suitors passed by in despair, 
and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from competi- 
tion, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, 
however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance 
in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack; 
— yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; 
and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet 
the moment it was away — jerk! he was as erect, and 
carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 
gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his char- 
acter of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the 
farmhouse; not that he had any thing to apprehend from 
the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often 
a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel 
was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better 
even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His 
notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her 
housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely 
observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must 
be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. 
Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or 
plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest 
Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, 
watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, 
who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most val- 
iantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In 
the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the 
daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, 
34 



370 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable 
to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of 
riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vul- 
nerable point, or door of access; while others have a 
thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand 
different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the 
former, but a still greater proof of generalship to main- 
tain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for 
his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a 
thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some 
renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this 
was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; 
and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, 
the interests of the former evidently declined; his horse 
was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, 
and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the 
preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his na- 
ture, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, 
and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according 
to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, 
the knights-errant of yore — by single combat; but Icha- 
bod was too conscious of the superior might of his adver- 
sary to enter the lists against him: he had overheard a 
boast of Bones, that he would ''double the schoolmaster 
up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house;" and 
he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There 
was something extremely provoking in this obstinately 
pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw 
upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and 
to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod 
became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones, 
and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto 
peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school, by 
stopping up the chimney; broke into the school-house 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 371 

at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe 
and window stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy: 
so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the 
witches in the country held their meetings there. But 
what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportuni- 
ties of turning him into ridicule in presence, of his mis- 
tress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine 
in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival 
of Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without 
producing any material effect on the relative situation 
of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal after- 
noon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the 
lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of 
his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, 
that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice re- 
posed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror 
to evil doers; while on the desk before him might be seen 
sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, de- 
tected upon the persons of idle urchins; such as half- 
munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole 
legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently 
there had been some appalling act of justice recently 
inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their 
books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept 
upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned 
throughout the school-room. It was suddenly inter- 
rupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket 
and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like 
the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, 
wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by 
way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door 
with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making 
or ''quilting frolic,'' to be held that evening at Mynheer 
Van Tassel's; and having delivered his message with that 
air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a 
negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he 
dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away 



372 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his 
mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, 
without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped 
over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had 
a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken 
their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were 
flung aside without being put away on the shelves, ink- 
stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping 
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early 
emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, 
and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in 
the school-house. That he might make his appearance 
before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he bor- 
rowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domi- 
ciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans 
Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, 
like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is 
meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give 
some account of the looks and equipments of my hero 
and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken- 
down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing 
but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a 
ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and 
tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had 
lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral; but the other 
had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have 
had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the 
name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a 
favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, 
who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, 
some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 373 

down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil 
in him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck 
out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicu- 
larly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged 
on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of 
a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of 
his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 
called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out al- 
most to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of 
Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate 
of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an appari- 
tion as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- 
dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- 
low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped 
by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and 
scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make 
their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel 
might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, 
and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the 
neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping 
and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, ca- 
pricious from the very profusion and variety around 
them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite 
game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous 
note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; 
and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson 
crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and 
the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt 
tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue 
jay, that noisy coxcomb in his gay light-blue coat and 



374 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK 

white under-clothes; screaming and chattering, nodding 
and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good 
terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever 
open to every symptom of cuhnary abundance, ranged 
with dehght over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all 
sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in 
oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into 
baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in 
rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld 
great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping 
from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of 
cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying 
beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies ta the 
sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of 
pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, 
breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, 
soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, 
well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by 
the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
''sugared suppositions,'' he journeyed along the sides of 
a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of 
the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting 
that here and there a gentle undulation waved and pro- 
longed the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A 
few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of 
air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, 
changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from 
that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting 
ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that 
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to 
the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop 
was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with 
the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; 
and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 375 

water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the 
air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the 
castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged 
with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old 
farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats 
and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnifi- 
cent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, 
in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, home- 
spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay 
calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, 
almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a 
straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave 
symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square- 
skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and 
their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, 
especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, 
it being esteemed, throughout the country, as a potent 
nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
ing come to the gathering on his favorite steed Dare- 
devil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mis- 
chief, and which no one but himself could manage. He 
was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given 
to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant 
risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse 
as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he 
entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious 
display of red and white; but the ample charms of a 
genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time 
of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various 
and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experi- 
enced Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty dough- 
nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling 
cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and 



376 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then 
there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; 
besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover 
delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and 
pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, 
all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have 
enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up 
its clouds of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless the 
mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet 
as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. 
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as 
his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 
dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 
do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
eyes round him as he ate and chuckling with the possi- 
bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of 
almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school- 
house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, 
and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant 
pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him 
comrade! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable atten- 
tions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake 
of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a 
pressing invitation to ''fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant 
orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a cen- 
tury. His instrument was as old and battered as him- 
self. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or 
three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 377 

with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, 
and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were 
to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about 
him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in 
full motion, and clattering about the room, you would 
have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of 
the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was 
the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, 
of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, 
stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, roll- 
ing their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of 
ivory from ear to ear. How could the fiogger of urchins 
be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his 
heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously 
in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, 
sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by 
himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 
sat smoking at the end of the piazza, gossiping over for- 
mer times, and drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly-favored places which abound 
with chronicle and great men. The British and Ameri- 
can line had run near it during the war; it had, there- 
fore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with refu- 
gees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just 
sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to 
dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the 
indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the 
hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British 
frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breast- 
work, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. 



378 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, 
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, 
in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of 
defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, inso- 
much that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and 
glance off at the hilt: in proof of which, he was ready at 
any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. 
There were several more that had been equally great in 
the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had 
a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy ter- 
mination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich 
in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and super- 
stitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled re- 
treats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng 
that forms the population of most of our country places. 
Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of 
our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish 
their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, be- 
fore their surviving friends have travelled away from the 
neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to 
walk their rounds, they have no acquaintances left to 
call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom 
hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch 
communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing 
to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion 
in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it 
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies in- 
fecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people 
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling 
out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal 
tales were told. about funeral trains, and mourning cries 
and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where 
the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood 
m the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 379 

the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights 
before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The 
chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favor- 
ite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, 
who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the 
country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly 
among the graves in the church-yard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It 
stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty 
elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls 
shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming 
through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope de- 
scended from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the 
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 
would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody 
dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks 
and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of 
the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown 
a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge 
itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which 
cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occa- 
sioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of the 
favorite haunts of the headless horseman; and the place 
where he was most frequently encountered. The tale 
was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in 
ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his 
foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up be- 
hind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over 
hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the 
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old 
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree- 
tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice mar- 



3g0 ^^^ SKETCH-BOOK 

vellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the | 
galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, ■■ 
on returning one night from the neighboring village of j 
Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; \ 
that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, ; 
and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin 
horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the church- ' 
bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire. | 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with ] 
which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the ! 
listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam r, 
from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. j 
He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his in- \ 
valuable author, Cotton Mather, and added many mar- ; 
vellous events that had taken place in his native State of ■ 
Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his ■ 
nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. j 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers i 
gathered together their families in their wagons, and i 
were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, I 
and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted ■ 
on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light- ; 
hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, ; 
echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and j 
fainter until they gradually died away — and the late | 
scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Icha- | 
bod only lingered behind, according to the custom of i 
country lovers, to have a tete-a-t^te with the heiress, | 
fully convinced that he was now on the high road to [ 
success. What passed at this interview I will not pre- 
tend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- '. 
ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly ; 
sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air ! 
quite desolate and chop-fallen. — Oh these women! these j 
women ! Could that girl have been playing off any of her | 
coquettish tricks? — Was her encouragement of the poor ] 
pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his | 
rival? — Heaven only knows, not I! — Let it suffice to say, | 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 381 

Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been 
sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. With- 
out looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural 
wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight 
to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, 
roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfor- 
table quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dream- 
ing of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of 
timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- 
wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in 
the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far 
below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indis- 
tinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of 
a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking 
of the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; 
but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of 
his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now 
and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, acci- 
dentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some 
farm-house away among the hills — but it was like a 
dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred 
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a 
cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, 
from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, 
and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. 
The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to 
sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally 
hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely 
and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very 
place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had 
been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous 
tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other 



382 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of land- 
mark. Its hmbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough 
to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost 
to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was con- 
nected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, 
who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was univer- 
sally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The 
common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and 
superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its 
ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange 
sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
whistle: he thought his whistle was answered — it was 
but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. 
As be approached a little nearer, he thought he saw some- 
thing white, hanging in the midst of the tree — he paused 
and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, 
perceived that it was a place where the tree had been 
scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. 
Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his 
knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of 
one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about 
by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new 
perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly- 
wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A 
few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over 
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook 
entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted 
thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom 
over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It 
was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was 
captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and 
vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised 
him. This has ever since been considered a haunted 
stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who 
has to pass it alone after dark. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 383 

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; 
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his 
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to 
dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting 
forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral move- 
ment, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, 
whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on 
the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: 
it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was 
only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a 
thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The school- 
master now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starve- 
ling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuf- 
fling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, 
with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawl- 
ing over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp 
by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Icha- 
bod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin 
of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black 
and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up 
in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring 
upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and 
fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there 
of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could 
ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, there- 
fore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering 
accents — ''Who are you?" He received no reply. He 
repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still 
there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides 
of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke 
forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just 
then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, 
and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the 
middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dis- 
mal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some 
degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman 



384 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of 
powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or 
sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging 
along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now 
got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — 
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his 
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth,, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- 
ion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon 
fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, 
which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief 
against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, 
Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was 
headless! — but his horror was still more increased, on 
observing that the head, which should have rested on his 
shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the 
saddle: his terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower 
of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden 
movement, to give his companion the slip — but the 
spectre started full jump with him. Away then they 
dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks 
flashing at every bound. Ichabod 's flimsy garments 
fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body 
away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to 
Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 
with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite 
turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This 
road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for 
about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 385 

famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green 
knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he 
had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the 
saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. 
He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it 
firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by 
clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle 
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by 
his- pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van 
Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for it was his 
Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the 
goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider that 
he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; some- 
times slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and 
sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back- 
bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave 
him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The waver- 
ing reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook 
told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls 
of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He 
recollected the place where Brom Bones 's ghostly com- 
petitor had disappeared. ''If I can but reach that 
bridge," thought Ichabod, ''I am safe." Just then he 
heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind 
him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another 
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang 
upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; 
he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look 
behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to 
rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw 
the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of 
hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge 
the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
cranium with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled head- 
25 



386 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

long into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and 
the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly crop- 
ping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not 
make his appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, 
but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school- 
house, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; 
but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to 
feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and 
his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent 
investigation they came upon his traces. In one part 
of the road leading to the church was found the saddle 
trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply 
dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were 
traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a 
broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and 
black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, 
and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which con- 
tained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two 
shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two 
of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small- 
clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs' 
ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and 
furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the com- 
munity, excepting Cotton Mather's ''History of Witch- 
craft," a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams 
and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap 
much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts 
to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van 
Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were 
forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; 
who from that time forward determined to send his chil- 
dren no more to school; observing, that he never knew 
any good come of this same reading and writing. What- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 387 

ever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had re- 
ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must 
have had about his person at the time of his disappear- 
ance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the church-yard, at the bridge, 
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been 
found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others, were called to mind; and when they had 
diligently considered them all, and compared them with 
the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, 
and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried 
off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and 
in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more 
about him. The school wa,s removed to a different quar- 
ter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his 
stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; 
that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of 
the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortifi- 
cation at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; 
that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the 
country; had kept school and studied law at the same 
time, had been admitted to the bar, turned pohtician, 
electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had 
been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom 
Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, 
was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the 
story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a 
hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led 
some to suspect that he knew more about the matter 
than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best 



388 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod 
was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a 
favorite story often told about the neighborhood round 
the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than 
ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the 
reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as 
to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. 
The school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and 
was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortu- 
nate pedagogue; and the ploughboy, loitering home- 
ward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his 
voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune 
among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words 
in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the 
ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many 
of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator 
was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper- 
and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one 
whom I strongly suspected of being poor, — he made such 
efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, 
there was much laughter and approbation, particularly 
from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been 
asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, 
one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eye- 
brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face 
throughout: now and then folding his arms, inclining his 
head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a 
doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, 
who never laugh, but upon good grounds — when they 
have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth 
of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was 
restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, 
sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but 
exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of 
the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it 
went to prove? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine 
to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a 
moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite 
deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, 
observed, that the story was intended most logically to 
prove : — 

''That there is no situation in life but has its advan- 



390 "^HE SKETCH-BOOK 

tages and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as 
we find it: 

'^That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troop- 
ers is likely to have rough riding of it. 

''Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the 
hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high prefer- 
ment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold 
closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the 
ratiocination of the syllogism; while, methought, the one 
in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a trium- 
phant leer. At length, he observed, that all this was very 
well, but still he thought the story a little on the extrav- 
agant — there were one or two points on which he had 
his doubts. 

''Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, 
I don't believe one-half of it myself." 

D. K. 



L'ENVOY 1 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call. 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the 
Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indul- 
gence with which his first has been received, and of the 
liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat him with 
kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may 
be said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly 
gentle and good-natured race; it is true that each has in 
turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these 
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would 
amount almost to a total condemnation of his work; but 
then he has been consoled by observing, that what one 
has particularly censured, another has as particularly 
praised; and thus, the encomiums being set off against 
the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, com- 
mended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of 
this kind favor by not following the counsel that has 
been liberally bestowed upon him; for where abundance 
of valuable advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's 
own fault if he should go astray. He can only say, in 
his vindication, that he faithfully determined, for a time, 
to govern himself in his second volume by the opinions 

1 Closing the second volume of the London edition. 



392 THE SKETCH-BOOK 

passed upon his first; but he was soon brought to a stand 
by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly ad- 
vised him to avoid the ludicrous; another to shun the 
pathetic; a third assured him that he was tolerable at 
description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone; 
while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack 
at turning a story, and was really entertaining when in a 
pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined 
himself to possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each 
in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the 
world beside to range in, he found that to follow all their 
counsels, would in fact, be to stand still. He remained 
for a time sadly embarrassed; when, all at once, the 
thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun; that 
his work being miscellaneous, and written for different 
humors, it could not be expected that any one would be 
pleased with the whole; but that if it should contain 
something to suit each reader, his end would be com- 
pletely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table 
with an equal appetite for every dish. One has an ele- 
gant horror of a roasted pig; another holds a curry or a 
devil in utter abomination; a third cannot tolerate the 
ancient flavor of venison and wildfowl; and a fourth, of 
truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt 
on those knick-knacks, here and there dished up for the 
ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn; and 
yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish 
go away from the table without being tasted and relished 
by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this 
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his 
first; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here 
and there something to please him, to rest assured that it 
was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself; 
but entreating him, should he find any thing to dislike, to 
tolerate it, as one of those articles which the author has 
been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste. 



UENVOY 393 

To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numer- 
ous faults and imperfections of his work; and well aware 
how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts 
of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a 
diffidence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds 
himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a 
public which he has been accustomed, from childhood, 
to regard with the highest feeUngs of awe and reverence. 
He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet 
finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his 
powers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence 
which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the 
kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go 
on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier foot- 
ing; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, 
surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his 
own temerity. 



NOTES 

[The numerals in boldfaced type indicate the page and the line.] 
PREFACE 

4-20. John Murray (1778-1843) was the second of four succes- 
sive London publishers of the same name. He brought out many 
of the chief British men of letters of his time, including Byron, 
Moore, and Campbell, — as well as Irving. 

4-25. Archibald Constable, the noted Scottish publisher, brought 
out most of Scott's books from 1805 until 1826. In the latter 
year, Constable and an associated printing establishment failed, 
and dragged Scott, a heavy shareholder, into bankruptcy with 
them. The story of how Sir Walter heroically and successfully set 
his life to wiping out the firm's debt of $600,000 is now classic. 

4-30. Abbots ford was the country residence of the great British 
novelist and poet, who had begun to publish his Waverley Novels 
five years before this time. 

4-35. In the beginning of 1818, Irving and his brother Peter 
were forced into bankruptcy, through the failure of a business 
venture in which they had sunk nearly all their money. This 
reverse threw Irving upon his pen for support; and writing, for a 
while, became a necessity as well as a pleasure. The Sketch-Book 
was the first fruit of this enforced literary activity. 

6-2. Crimp: a dialectical and colloquial use of the verb, meaning 
to decoy or kidnap; a term often applied to the practice of im- 
pressing men into the service of the navy. See note, 115-33. 

6-26. The Cossacks are an independent-spirited tribal people 
inhabiting various parts of Russia, and famous for their horseman- 
ship and military temerity. As light cavalry, they constitute an 
integral part of the Russian army. The Cossacks dwelling in the 
valley of the lower Don give their name to a province of the Rus- 
sian Empire. 

7-12. Open the trenches: a phrase borrowed from military tactics, 
meaning to form lines of approach to a stronghold. 



396 NOTES 

7-29. Nigromancy is a corrupt form of "necromancy," built on 
the assumption that the word was a Latin translation of the popular 
appellation — the black art (L. niger, black). Necromancy is the 
art of magic, or enchantment. 

8-11. Diabolus and Lord Understanding are two allegorical 
characters in John Bunyan's Holy War (1682). The reference is 
to Chapter ii. 

8-18. Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine was started in 1817 as a 
Tory monthly. One of its founders was Scott's son-in-law and 
biographer, John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854), who reviewed both 
the Sketch-Book and Knickerbocker's History of N. Y. in the maga- 
zine. The monthly enjoyed one of the longest and most brilliant 
careers that any periodical can boast of, and early gained popularity 
by publishing short stories in its pages. In 1820, Lockhart married 
Sophia Scott (mentioned in Irving 's note to page 7); he is chiefly 
remembered now for his Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott 
(published 1836-8). 

8-24. Knickerbocker was the nom-de-plume under which Irving 
had concealed his identity when he published, ten years before, 
his first book, the comic Knickerbocker's History of New York. 

THE author's account OF HIMSELF 

It is interesting to compare Irving's "account of himself" with 
that given by Addison, under similar circumstances, at the be- 
ginning of the Spectator papers. When a volume is to be mis- 
cellaneous in character, and its contents dictated by the writer's 
whim, there is an obvious advantage in beginning with the author's 
own statement of his tastes and propensities. 

11-2. Eftsoons: an antiquated word, still used rarely in poetry, 
and meaning "soon after." A glance at the sources of the quotations 
which stand at the head of the papers in this book discloses Irving's 
fondness for the older writers of British literature — the old songs 
by forgotten poets; the Elizabethan dramatists, lyric poets, and 
prose writers. Irving spent many an hour poring over the books 
in the great British Museum, in London. 

11-11. Native City: New York. For a most charming account 
of life in New York City, at the time when Irving was a boy, see 
C. D. Warner's The Work of Washington Irving, in Harper's "Black 
and White Series." 

11-12. Town-crier: a town-officer of the olden time, who "cried," 
in the street, the arrival of a ship, the loss of a child, or any other 
bit of news of town importance; he was paid separately for each 
service, by any persons who chose to hire him. 



NOTES 397 

11-18. Neighboring villages: many of these villages are now parts 
of the City of New York; for example, Harlem. 

11-23. Terra incognita: Latin for "unknown country." 

12-15. Her mighty lakes, etc.: Much of the scenery upon which 
America justly prides herself was then undiscovered or little known. 
In 1819, the vast region beyond the Mississippi River was known 
by few but pioneer settlers and traders; it had been a part of the 
Union only sixteen years (Louisiana Purchase, 1803); the first lo- 
comotive to run in the United States made her initial trip ten years 
after the appearance of this sketch; and not until 1869 (ten years 
after Irving's death) was a railroad completed across the continent. 
Thus, the scenic wonders which so impressed Irving as a young 
man comprise a small proportion indeed of the present-known glories 
of our national landscape. Ignorant of these inaccessible glories, 
American travellers naturally turned to Europe, for whose storied 
ruins and tradition-laden spots they developed an almost extrava- 
gantly romantic feeling. 

13-15. English travellers: see note, 58-5- 

14-5. St. Peter's: the vast, gorgeously carved and decorated, 
Roman Catholic Cathedral at Rome. Coliseum: the most famous 
amphitheatre of ancient Rome, for four centuries the scene of gladia- 
torial combats. Cascade of Terni: the Velino River makes three 
successive falls near Terni, Italy. Bay of Naples: one of the most 
beautiful bays in the world. 

14-6. The very title of this book hints at the miscellaneous 
character of its contents. Just as the artist fills his portfolio with 
sketches of every manner of subject, executed in a variety of styles, 
so Irving — a painter in words — fills his Sketch-Book with word- 
pictures as varied in subject and in treatment. In keeping with 
this fanciful resemblance between the art of painting and the 
literary art, Irving published this book under the nom-de-plume 
of Geoffrey Crayon. Indeed, another young American, Washing- 
ton Allston, had almost persuaded Irving to be a painter. The 
student should note that some of the papers are short stories; 
some are essays; and some are simple descriptions of places, scenes, 
and customs. 

THE VOYAGE 

The topic serves as a natural and admirable introduction to 
sketches that are mainly of foreign travel. If you have yourself 
crossed the Atlantic, you will be interested in comparing your own 
sensations with those of Irving, and in determining how much of 
the difference is due to the changed conditions of modern travel. 



398 NOTES 

15-1. The voyage to Europe was a much more tedious trip in 
Irving 's time than it is to-day. Irving crossed the Atlantic three 
times (1804, 1815, 1842), and his first voyage consumed just six 
weeks. In those days, sailing vessels, called packets, were the only 
means of transit between the two continents; the first steam-ship 
to make the trip was the Savannah, which sailed from Savannah, 
Ga., to Liverpool (partly by steam), in 26 days, in 1819, the year 
Irving began sending the first parts of his Sketch-Book to America. 

15-16. We drag ''a lengthening chain": from Goldsmith's Traveller, 
line 10; very nearly the same phrase occurs also in his Citizen of the 
World, third letter. Irving's style is said to derive from Goldsmith 
and Addison, and the student may compare selected papers from 
The Citizen of the World and from The Spectator with the sketches 
in the present volume. Irving partly paid his literary obligation 
to Goldsmith by publishing, thirty years after the appearance of 
the Sketch-Book, a most entertaining and graceful biography of 
the Irish poet, novelist, and essayist. 

19-13. Deep called unto deep: cf. Psalms xlii, 7. 

ROSCOE 

This sketch may well be omitted in a first reading of the volume. 
The subject is both local and personal, and can scarcely awaken 
so wide and general and permanent an interest as do many of the 
following sketches. 

22-21. Roscoe: Wm. Roscoe (1753-1831), a well-known historian 
of Irving's day, and a native of Liverpool; author of Life of Lorenzo 
de'Medici (1796), and Life and Pontificate of Leo X. (1805). The 
former is the work referred to in the first line of the following para- 
graph. The Medici were an Italian family which once ruled in 
Florence and Tuscany, and which is celebrated for the number of 
statesmen it produced, and for its patronage of art and literature. 

27-10. Black-letter: the form of type used by the early printers, 
as distinguished from the "Roman" type in which this book is 
printed. The heavy-faced type in which German books are com- 
monly printed is a lingering form of the old "black-letter." 

28-15. Pompey's column: a famous obelisk at Alexandria. 

28-17. Sonnet: a sonnet has always the same number of lines, 
the same metre, and approximately the same rhyme-system. Com- 
pare this sonnet with other sonnets (e. g., those of Milton and of 
Wordsworth) and note to what extent the form they employ is 
alike, and to what extent different. Examine especially Milton's 
sonnet on his blindness, mentioned by Irving on page 96, line 3. 

28-28. Elder art: maturer art. 



NOTES 399 



THE WIFE 



36-2. Pastoral 'poet: a poet who sings of shepherds and shep- 
herdesses, and the free country hfe which they lead. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

37. Diedrich Knickerbocker is the imaginary old gentleman whom 
Irving represented as being the true author of his own first book, 
the History of New York, published in 1809. For a fuller account 
of the Knickerbocker legend, read the prefatory pages of the History 
itself; and see, also, page 323 of The Tales of a Traveller, in the 
present series. 

37-4. Thylke: an obsolete adjective, meaning "the same." 

38-9. ''More in sorrow," etc.: Hamlet, i., ii., 232. 

38-18. Queen Anne's Farthing: a rare coin of Queen Anne's time, 
only a few being issued during her reign. 

38-20. Kaatskill: the old Dutch spelling of Catskill. 

38-36. .1 village: the village of Catskill. Joseph Jefferson, the 
famous American actor, once gave a presentation of his dramati- 
zation of this tale at this very town, near the base of the mountain 
where Rip had his adventure. 

39-6. Peter Stmjvesant was appointed director-general of the 
New Netherlands in 1646; entered upon his office in 1647; surren- 
dered the colony to the English in 1664; and spent his last years 
on his farm, "The Bowery," in New York City. For a humorous 
description of this last governor of the New Netherlands, see Irving's 
Knickerbocker's History of New York. 

39-14. Was yet a province: New York was a province of Great 
Britain from 1664 to 1776. 

39-18. Fort Christina: a Swedish stronghold, about 15 miles 
from what is now Philadelphia. The chapter in the Knickerbocker 
History which recounts the details of the Dutch siege of this fort 
is probably the most humorous passage in the volume (book vi., 
chap. viii.). 

39-29. Curtain lecture: a wife's scolding harangue to her hus- 
band from behind the curtains of an old-fashioned, canopied bed. 

39-38. Dame: Mrs. Elsewhere in this book, when used as a 
noun, it means "wife." 

40-14. The Tartars were a wild, fierce people, who originated 
in Manchuria and Mongolia, and later spread over all Asia, and, in 
the Middle Ages, threatened to invade even Europe. The student 
will be interested in reading De Quincey's vivid and fascinating 
Flight of a Tartar Tribe. 



400 NOTES 

41-8. Galligaskins: loose breeches. 

41-29. Wolf: in the play, the dog's name is Schneider (Snyder). 

42-1. Gallows air: the guilty and downcast air of one who ex- 
pects to be hung on the gallows. 

44-34. Jerkin: a short, close-fitting jacket or waistcoat. Several 
pairs of breeches: it was the custom in old New Netherlands, as 
Irving tells us in the Knickerbocker History of New York, for the 
men to wear several pairs of breeches, one outside the other. 
Bunches: bows of ribbon. 

45-27. Doublets: a doublet, like a jerkin, is a short, close-fitting 
jacket. 

45-32. Sugar-loaf hat: a high conical hat. 

45-38. Roses: ornamental knots of ribbon over the instep; we are 
more familiar with the diminutive form, "rosettes." 

46-4. The time of settlement: the first settlement on Manhattan 
Island was made in 1614 (or 1613). 

46-25. Hollands: Holland gin. 

49-30. While Rip was asleep on the mountain, the American 
Revolution had taken place; the stars and stripes had replaced the 
British flag, and the picture of George III. had been repainted so 
as to resemble George Washington. 

50-14. Babylonish jargon: alluding to the confusion of tongues 
at the tower of Babel. 

50-25. Federal or Democrat: the Federal Party was the party of 
Washington, John Adams, Hamilton, and Jay. The Democratic 
Party here alluded to is remembered as the Democratic-Republican 
Party (1793-1828), the Democratic Party of to-day not arising 
until 1828 (nine years after the Sketch-Book was written). It was 
the party of Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe.— See article, "Politi- 
cal Parties," in Harper's Book of Facts. 

51-2. Tory: a loyal adherent to the crown, during the American 
Revolution. 

51-20. Both Stony Point and Anthomfs Nose are promontories 
on the Hudson River, near West Poinf , 35 miles north of New York 
City. Stony Point was occupied by an American fort in the Revo- 
lutionary War, was captured by the British in 1779, and was re- 
taken by assault the same year by the Americans under Anthony 
Wayne. 

53-36. Half-moon: the name of the ship in which Henry (Hen- 
drick) Hudson, an English navigator in Dutch employ, sailed up 
the river which now bears his name, in 1609. 

55 Note. According to Joseph Jefferson, this story is an Ameri- 
canized version of an. old German legend of the Hartz Mountains, 



i\ote:s 401 

called Carl the Shepherd. The alert genius of Irving transplanted 
the tale to our own Catskills, among whose crags he had so freely 
roamed as a boy. 

56-15. Carded cotton: combed or disentangled cotton. 

57. In 1859, this tale was made into a three-act play by the 
American actor, Joseph Jefferson. Several feeble dramatizations 
had preceded, but Jefferson made Rip one of the best-known and 
best-liked characters on the American stage. The play was partly 
rewritten for presentation in London, by Dion Boucicault, an Anglo- 
American actor, manager, and playwright. This second version 
was later further altered and extended by Jefferson, and has never 
ceased to occupy front rank as a thoroughly American theme, 
dramatized by an American, and acted by an American. For the 
manner in which Jefferson came to write the play, consult his en- 
tertaining autobiography (1890); and for differences in detail be- 
tween the tale and the play, consult the play itself (N. Y., 1895). 

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 

58-3. Mewing: molting, renewing. 

58-5. Literary animosity: the spirit of animosity which was natu- 
rally enough engendered between England and America by the 
Revolution of 1776, and further aggravated by the war of 1812, 
was still fostered in Irving 's day by the over-patriotic school histories 
of both countries and by illiberal travellers. Fortunately, during 
our recent w^ar wdth Spain, England show'ed herself to be our best 
friend, and the last note of discord has died aw^ay, never, w^e trust, 
to be struck again. 

58-8. The London press, etc.: in Channing and Hart's Guide to 
the Study of American History (1896), there are recorded the titles 
of eighteen books of travel, published in England, by Britains and 
Frenchmen who visited America betw^een the time of the Declara- 
tion of Independence and the issuance of the Sketch-Book. All but 
three of these were brought out in London; five of them during the 
years 1817-18-19, immediately before the Sketch-Book. The best 
known of these travellers are St. John de Crevecoeur (1782), an 
enthusiastic farmer in America; and Wm. Cobbett (1819), remem- 
bered chiefly for the English grammar which he wrote W'hile living 
on Long Island, N. Y. 

58-16. English travellers are the best, etc. Notice that Irving 
liked the English but did not flatter them; see note, 65-1. 

59-14. Manchester and Birmingham are two of the largest manu- 
facturing towns in England. 
26 



402 NOTES 

59-19. Political experiments: the reference is to the experiment 
of democracy, i. e., a government by the people themselves rather 
than by an hereditary monarch. 

59-25. In a state of fermentation: the war of 1812 was a, recent 
occurrence, and popular emotion had not yet subsided; then, too, 
the government itself was only 36 years old when Irving wrote 
this book. 

60-14. El Dorado: the Spanish for "the gilded man," in allusion 
to the tradition that the chief of an Indian tribe in Colombia was 
covered with gold-leaf. The term was long applied to an im- 
aginary land, rich in gold and precious stones, supposed by the 
Spanish and by Raleigh to have existed between the Amazon and 
the Orinoco rivers, in South America, 

61-21. Apocryphal volumes: volumes of doubtful authority — un- 
reliable as sources of true information. 

63-15. Possessing, then, as England does, etc. The only important 
author who preceded Irving in American letters was Franklin. 
Many worthy poets and prose-writers have since distinguished our 
literature, so that Irving 's statement is, happily, less true to-day 
than it was in 1819. 

64-18. The late war: that of 1812. 

65-1. Keenest castigation. These are rather strong words from 
the normally mild-tempered Irving, but his patriotic indignation 
for once gets the better of him. It is a strange fact that two of 
the most loyal Americans our literature has ever had, Irving and 
Lowell, should both have been accused of immoderate catering to 
English taste and feeling. Both men, however, were thought 
worthy to represent their country in England. Read Lowell's 
essay, On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners, and decide for 
yourself whether Lowell, as well as Irving, was not a good American 
citizen. After a long residence abroad, beginning when he was only 
nineteen, Irving at last returned, with genuine and undisguised 
joy, to end his days in his native land. 

65-32. Knowledge is power: a much-quoted saying from Francis 
Bacon's Meditationes Sacrce. 

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

68-7. Metropolis: London. 

70-4. Country seat: country residence. 

72-13. Regular gradation. The gentry and small landed proprietors 
constituted, together, the "middle class;" the gentry usually held 
a social position slightly above the small landed proprietors, being 
a trifle better educated and more cultured than the latter. The 



NOTES 403 

noblemen bore titles from the crown and formed the aristocracy, 
while the peasants were the uneducated laboring class. 

72-38. The sound of hound: fox-hunting was the national amuse- 
ment of the English nobility and landed gentry. — Read No. 116 of 
The Spectator (Sir Roger Goes A-hunting). 

73-8. The rural feeling that runs through British literature. Dur- 
ing the times of Dryden, Pope, Swift, Addison, and Johnson, in- 
terest in nature seemed to be almost extinct; the feeling for nature 
was revived, however, at the end of the eighteenth century, and has 
never since ceased to furnish English literature with much of its 
best inspiration. The poets Thomson, Collins, Gray, and Burns 
began the movement which brought back this nature-interest into 
English literature; Wordsworth, who wrote during the first half of 
the nineteenth century, is the greatest British nature-poet; and 
Bryant, who came a quarter of a century later, is the truest nature- 
poet of American letters. 

73-12. The Flower and the Leaf is no longer considered to have 
been written by Chaucer. 

74-7. Gothic architecture is so frequently mentioned by Irving 
that the student should get a clear notion of what it is by consult- 
ing a large dictionary. It is the prevailing church architecture of 
England, and its most striking feature is the consistent use of the 
pointed arch, with details to correspond. Irving frequently em- 
ploys the word gothic in a general sense, meaning simply ancient, 
rude, crude. 

76-18. / believe in broken hearts: see note, 156-24. 

77-15. "Fly to the uttermost parts," etc.: two Bible passages con- 
fused. — Psalms Iv. 6 and cxxxix. 9. 

78-3. "Dry sorrow drinks her blood": Romeo and Juliet, iii., v., 58. 

78-8. "Darkness and the worm:" Young's Night Thoughts, iv., 10. 

78-33. Young E .• Robert Emmet a778-1803). 

79-20. Let those tell, etc. Irving is thinking of his own betrothed, 
upon whom the tomb had closed ten years before. 

80-14. "Heeded not the song," etc.: a rough quotation»of Psalms 
Iviii. 4, 5, — "Which will not hearken to the voice of the charmers, 
charming never so wisely." 

80-26. Orchestra: a raised platform upon which the musicians sat. 

81-18. Thomas Moore (1779-1852) wrote the songs of the Irish 
heart, as Burns wrote the songs of the Scottish heart. The song 
here quoted is from his Irish Melodies. It was Moore, whom Irving 
met in Paris (Dec, 1820), that suggested to the latter the idea of 
weaving a story about the characters in the Christmas essays 
(Master Simon, etc.). The result was Bracebridge Hall (1822). 



404 NOTES 

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 

82-1. Doom: judgment. 

82-17. Saloonfi: the English form of the French salon, a spacious 
room or hall, either for the reception of friends, or for the exhibi- 
tion of works of art. The British Museum was founded in 1753; 
it contains chiefly a collection of books, maps, drawings, antiquities, 
coins and medals; the books now number over two millions. The 
museum receives a copy of every new book published in Great 
Britain. 

83-24. .4. familiar: in the old stories, a familiar was the attend- 
ant servant and messenger that waited upon any person who had 
dealings with the evil spirits of the other world. 

83-29. Occult sciences: secret sciences, the black art, necromancy, 
magic. 

84-13. "Pure English, undefiled:'' from Spenser's Faerie Queene, 
book iv., canto ii., stanza 32. — "Chaucer, well of English undefiled." 

84-17. Wight: person, an archaic word, now usually employed 
in irony or burlesque. 

85-1. "Line upon line," etc.: from Isaiah xxviii. 10. 

85-6. "Baboon's blood," "slab and good:" from Macbeth, iv., i., 
lines 31 and 36. Slab, gluey, viscous. 

87-9. The Paradise of Daintie Devices: a popular collection of 
poetry, made in 1576, by Richard Edwards. 

87-27. Arcadian hat: rustic hat; see note, 36-2. 

87-30. Regent's Park is an extensive pleasure-ground in London; 
Primrose Hill is an eminence north of Regent's Park. 

87-33. "Babbling aboxd green fields." According to the Hostess 
in Henry V. (ii., iii., 17), Falstaff, on his death-bed, "babbled of 
green fields." Irving is ridiculing the absurdity of city-bred au- 
thors' writing about nature and rustic life, when their acquamtance 
with green fields had been acquired solely from rambles in the 
London parks. 

88-16. Beaumont and Fletcher: Elizabethan dramatists who 
wrote play^s in collaboration. 

88-17. Castor and Pollux were twin sons of Zeus: the first famous 
for managing wild horses; the second, a renowned pugilist. 

88-18. During Ben Jonson's military service in the Low Coun- 
tries, he killed an enemy in single combat. 

88-20. Farragos: medleys. 

88-22. Harlequin: a stock-character in early Italian comedy 
and English pantomine. In old English comedy, he was usually 
called a merry-andrew; he was a buffoon, dressed in party-colored 
clQthes, who amused the audience with rough horse-play. 



NOTES 405 

88-24. Patrodus: the companion of Achilles, in the Iliad. 

88-34. ^'Chopped bald shot": a chopped-off (diminutive), bald- 
headed shooter — Falstaff's remark about Wart, in Henry IV., 
Part II., iii., ii., 294. 

88-37. Theban: a citizen of Thebes, the chief city of ancient 
Bceotia, in Greece; here the word carries the same meaning as the 
more general noun, Greek. The phrase, learned Theban, is applied 
to Edgar by King Lear, — King Lear, iii., iv., 162. 

A ROYAL POET 

90-8. Windsor Castle: the favorite residence of English sovereigns. 

90-23. Which: in strict usage, we should write "who." Why? 

90-26. Sir Peter Lely: a Dutch portrait-painter (1618-80), who 
resided in England. He was appointed court-painter to Charles II. 
and enjoyed great popularity as a painter of the court beauties of 
his time. 

91-2- Hapless Surrey: Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517- 
1547). He is important in the history of English poetry as having 
introduced blank verse, and as being one of the first English poets 
to use the sonnet-form (see note, 28-17). Like many poets of 
Elizabeth's time, Surrey addressed a series of lyrics to an idealized 
mistress, who did not return his love. The story of Surrey's jour- 
ney to Florence, to seek out his Lady Geraldine's birthplace, is 
now known to be a mere fiction. 

93-15. Torquato Tasso: an Italian epic poet. It is now known 
that his chief work, Jerusalem Delivered, was conceived under 
happy circumstances, several years before his mental breakdo\\Ti 
necessitated his confinement at Ferrara. 

93-18. James I. of Scotland (1394-1437) wrote poems in imita- 
tion of Chaucer; and Chaucer's seven-line stanza, which he used, 
has been ever since called the Rime Royal. The King's Quair (or 
the King's Book) is his chief poem. 

94-2. Ermine: the fur with which the royal robes of state were 
faced and lined. 

94-21. Cynthia: the moon. Aquarius: the "water-bearer," a 
constellation. 

94-24. Boetius (c. 475 — c. 524 a. d.): a Roman philosopher, 
much read in the Middle Ages. His chief work, De Consolatione 
Philosophioe, was translated (in part) by King Alfred, as well as by 
Chaucer. 

96-3. Lamentations over his blindness: Irving refers to Milton's 
famous sonnet on his blindness, beginning "When I consider how 
my light is spent." 



406 NOTES 

96-16. Fortired: completely tired. 

96-24ff- Fast: close, near; ivandis: wands; knet: knit, intertwined; 
forbye: hard by, near; ivight: person; set (page 97) : sat, we should 
say nowadays; among: at times; rung right of: rang loud with, re- 
sounded with. 

97-11. Kalends: the first day of the month in the ancient Roman 
calendar. 

97-30. Feynit: feigned, pretended, imagined; giff: if. 

98-33. Port: carriage, manner of carrying one's person in walking. 

99-11. Phoebus: the sun (in ancient mythology). 

99-36. Decretit: decreed. 

100-34. Studier: a rare word — the usual word being, of course, 
student. 

101-12. Fathers of our verse: Chaucer is regularly called the 
father of English poetry. Gower and King James were his con- 
temporaries, but were far inferior in poetic ability. Irving's ad- 
miration of King James is somewhat extravagant. 

101-21. Irving refers to his friend Scott's popular Waverley 
Novels, which were in course of publication when The Sketch-Book 
came out. 

104-19. Vaucluse: a town in Southern France, made famous by 
the residence of the Italian poet Petrarch (1304-74). Loretto: an 
Italian town, containing the Holy House, to which frequent pil- 
grimages were made. 

THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

105-7. Seat: country residence. 

105-25. Arms: coats-of-arms. 

106-8. Throw off: start (in a hunt). 

107-15. En prince: a French phrase, meaning "in princely, or 
elegant, style." 

108-12. 'Change: the Exchange in London, where large money 
transactions take place. 

108-21. Lord Mayor's day: the festival holiday when the Lord 
Mayor of London is inaugurated into office. 

THE WIDOW AND HER SON 

111-14. Siveet day, etc.: from George Herbert's poem, Virtue, 
published in the Teinple (1631). 

115-33. Press gang: a detachment under the command of an 
officer empowered to impress men into public service, especially 
the naval service. 



NOTES 407 

116-1. Came upon the parish: became a public charge, the object 
of public charity. 

118-12. Hatchments: "the armorial bearings of a deceased per- 
son, so blazoned as to indicate the rank, condition, sex, etc., and 
placed on the tomb, house, hearse, or in the church." — Stand. Diet. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 

119-4. Babel: see Genesis xi. 9, for the story of the confusion of 
tongues. The word is here intended to convey the idea of a con- 
fused buzz of many contending voices. 



122. Boar's Head Tavern: "a tavern in London, celebrated by 
Shakespeare as the scene of Falstaff's carousals. It was destroyed 
in the Fire of London, afterwards rebuilt, and demolished to form 
one of the approaches to London Bridge. A statue of William IV. 
stands on the spot." — Cent. Cycl. of Names. The student will 
better understand this essay after a fresh reading of Shakespeare's 
Henry IV. 

124-20ff. Cock Lane: See Hill's Bosivell's Johnson, i., 470, for 
the story of a ghost in Cock Lane, London, which gained wide 
credence at the time, but which Dr. Johnson held up to ridicule in 
the contemporary press. — Little Britain was a small street off 
Aldersgate Street, London; it was to a tavern in this street that 
Addison, in the first number of the Spectator, directed his readers 
to address letters to him. See the paper entitled Little Britain, in 
the present volume, page 256. The student who wishes particular 
knowledge of London streets, customs, etc., may consult Sir Walter 
Besant's London (1892). — Guildhall: the council hall of London, 
founded in 1411, and rebuilt after the great fire in 1666. The two 
legendary colossal figures of Gog and Magog stood there in the time 
of Henry V. They were burned in the great fire, and new ones put 
up in 1708. The older ones were made of wickerwork, pasteboard, 
etc., and were carried in procession at the Lord Mayor's inauguration. 
— London Stone: a stone said to have been set up in London by the 
Romans, in 15 B. C. In 1450, Jack Cade, the rebel, struck the stone 
with his staff as a sign of his authority. For Shakespeare's account 
of Cade, see the Second Part of King Henry VL 

124-13. Old Stowe: John Stow (1525-1604) was a noted English 
historian and antiquary. His Survey of London (1598), which 
Irving quotes, is the standard authority on old London. 



408 NOTES 

124-38. Sawtrie: an old spelling of "psaltery," a musical instru- 
ment something like the zither. 

125-1. Dustman's bell. A dustman is one who removes dust, 
rubbish, or garbage; he rings a bell to announce his coming, 

125-3. Billingsgate: a famous old fish-market, near London 
Bridge; the language of the fish-wives was so notoriously foul that 
Billingsgate has become a synonym for such speech. 

125-20. Lived, moved, and had her being: Acts xvii. 28. 

125-33. Great fire of London: the disastrous conflagration of 
1666, which destroyed over 13,000 houses, and rendered 200,000 
people homeless. 

126-31- Like Milton's angels: Paradise Lost, book v., lines 557- 
569. 

127-11. Marlborough or Turenne: John Churchill, Duke of Marl- 
borough (1650-1722), a great English general; Marshall Turenne 
(1611-1675), a great French soldier, from whom many military 
leaders of his own and following centuries learned the tactics of 
warfare. 

127-16. Wat Tyler, who led, with Jack Straw, an insurrection 
against the King in 1381, was struck down with a dagger by Wal- 
worth, the Lord Mayor of London, for threatening the life of King 
Richard. — Smithfisld was the great fair-ground of London. 

127-19. Cockney here vaguely stands for London. 

128-20. Train-band: short for "trained band," a force of citizen 
soldiery in London. 

128-30. The Tower: ancient fortress and prison-house of London, 
commenced in 1078 by William the Conqueror; it is now used simply 
as an armory, and a jewel-house for the crown-regalia. 

129-37. Bacchus: god of wine and revelry. 

130-7. "bully-rock": an obsolete word, same as "bully." In 
older usage, it was often a complimentary appellation. 

130-15. Boxes : little, square, low-partitioned compartments, 
with a bench running along each side and a table between the 
benches. 

131-3. Likely: good-looking, pleasing, agreeable. 

131-32. Scriblerius: Martinus Scriblerus, whose supposed Memoirs 
(1741) were really the combined work of Swift, Arbuthnot, and 
Pope. See Chapter iii., for the account of his Roman shield. 

131-33. Knights of the Round Table: the fabled Knights of King 
Arthur's court, who sat around a circular table. The story of their 
exploits constitutes the greatest romance-cycle of Mediaeval Europe; 
and, in prose, is best told in the delightful ilforfe d' Arthur (dr. 1470) 
of Sir Thomas Malory; in poetry, the most famous version is Tenny- 



NOTES 409 

son's Idijlls of the King (1859-85), based largely on Malory. 
The "san-grael," or "holy-grail," was, according to the old legend, 
the cup which Jesus used at the last supper. Many knights rode 
in quest of it, but it could be recovered only by one who was pure 
in thought, word, and deed. 

132-33. Parcel-gilt: part-gilt, or gilt on the embossed portions. 
The quotation is from ii., i., 78-84. 

133-25. "Tedious brief": A Midsummer Night's Dream, iv., i., 56. 

134-8. The shield of Achilles: made by the god Hephaistos 
(Vulcan), and by him ornamented with beautiful and intricate 
designs, which were described at length in the eighteenth book of 
the Iliad, — a passage which scholars have never wearied in dis- 
cussing. — The far-famed Portland vase: a famous antique glass vase, 
belonging to the Duke of Portland, now in the British Museum. 
There has been much discussion as to the meaning of the reliefs 
on it. 

MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

135-5. Sprite: spirit. 

135-15. Westminster School: a noted preparatory school, estab- 
lished in Westminster Abbey by Henry VIII., and reestablished 
by Elizabeth. 

135-24. Vergers: officers who have charge of the interiors of 
church-buildings. 

135-27. Chapter-house: a house in which the chapter (or body of 
officers connected with a cathedral church) meet for the transaction 
of business. In this case the chapter-house is close to the south 
transept. The room which Irving describes as the library is evi- 
dently the so-called muniment room, in which are now kept the 
archives of the church. 

135-28. Doomsday hook: the chapter-house of Westminster was 
long used as a depository of public records, among which was ap- 
parently kept the precious doomsday book, so-called, in which 
William the Conqueror had caused to be entered the record of owner- 
ship of lands and similar facts of importance. 

137-18. Quarto: in printing books, the size of the page is deter- 
mined by the number of times a sheet of paper (of standard dimen- 
sions) is folded; thus, folio means that the original sheet has been 
folded once; quarto (4to), that it has been folded twice; octavo (Svo), 
three times, etc. 

139-5. Your contemporaries: it is unnecessary for the young 
student to know more than Irving says here with regard to these 
forgotten worthies— great English scholars of the Middle Ages. 



410 NOTES 

139-37ff. Soueraine wittes: sovereign wits (intellects); certes, 
certainly; hen: are; fantasye: idea, notion. 

140-1. Wynkyn de Worde: an early printer who went to England 
as an assistant of Caxton (the first English printer); in 1491, he 
succeeded to Caxton 's business. 

140-2. When the language had become fixed. The poor book 
thought that the language of his time would be eternal. It seemed 
to him perfect in comparison with that of the slightly more antique 
period to which Irving had referred. 

140-17. "Well of pure English": see note, 84-13. 

140-34ff. Travell: travail, labor; passe: pass, state; ornature: 
ornamentation, enrichment. 

141-13. Runic inscriptions: inscriptions in the runes (or char- 
acters) of certain primitive alphabets. Such alphabets were used 
by the early Goths, Angles, and Scandinavians. Irving perhaps 
had in mind the cuneiform inscriptions in Persia, though these are 
not written in runes. 

141-18. Xerxes: the Persian king who tried in vain, with his 
enormous host, to conquer the Greeks. 

141-25ff. "Arcadia": an Elizabethan prose romance of shep- 
herds and shepherdesses, published in 1590. — Sackville: part-author 
of Gorboduc (1565), the first tragedy in English literature. — "Mirror 
for Magistrates:" a compilation of poems, first issued in 1559; it 
contained nineteen metrical tragedies; the part contributed by 
Sackville outweighs all the rest in value. — John Lyly: an Elizabethan 
dramatist, a predecessor of Shakespeare, and author also of the 
famous prose romance Euphues (1579, 1580). The high-flown, 
artificial style of this romance has given the name "Euphuism" to 
all affected elegance of diction, such as characterized the court 
speech of Elizabeth's reign. 

142-35. Bellona: war; Suada, persuasion; esse: ease. 

143-27. Checks on population: Irving undoubtedly refers to the 
famous theory of the English economist, Thomas Malthus, accord- 
ing to which population increases more rapidly than the means of 
subsistence; hence, crime and vice are "salutary," in that they 
furnish necessary checks to the growth of the population. 

144-6. Little of Latin, etc.: the oft-quoted remark of Ben Jonson, 
in his lines prefacing the First Folio (1623) of Shakespeare's plays. 
The deer-stealing tradition is now proved to have no foundation in 
fact. 

145-23. The setting may be antiquated: the attempts to modernize 
Chaucer, of which Dryden's is the most notable, have signally 
failed. 



NOTES 411 

145-34ff. Thorow: through; featlij: dexterously, neatly; shoes: 
shows; glass: mirror; drosse: gold. 

RURAL FUNERALS 

147-3. Fitt'st, fittest; strow, strew. 

147-25. Larded, interlarded, interspersed; love showers: showers 
of tears. — The stanza is taken from Hamlet, iv., v., 35. 

148-21. Thus, thus, etc.: the second stanza of Herrick's Dirge 
of Jepthah's Daughter, in Noble Numbers. Robert Herrick (1591- 
1674), one of Irving's favorite poets, wrote some of the most de- 
lightful lyrics in the English language. 

149-19. Corse: corpse; the passage is from act i., so. i. 

149-24. John Evelyn (1620-1706), author of one of the most 
notable English diaries; it covers the years 1641-97, but was not 
printed until the year before The Sketch-Book. Sylva, a more or 
less scientific treatise on the trees of England, was published in 1664, 

150-14. Umbratile: unreal, visionary. 

152-15. "Lay her i' the earth," etc.: from Hamlet, v., i.,262. 

152-23. Sleep in thy peace, etc. These are the 11th and 13th 
stanzas; the 2d was quoted on page 148. — Wonted: customary, 
regular. 

153-9. With fairest flowers, etc.: Cymbeline,iv., ii., 283. 

153-22. Conceits: in literature, conceits are extravagant and far- 
fetched figures of speech. 

153-27. In proportion as people grow polite, etc.: for a remarkable 
defense of this idea, see Macaulay's essay on Milton. 

153-37. Jeremy Taylor: an English bishop and celebrated theologi- 
cal writer (1613-67); his best-known works are Holy Living and 
Holy Dying. 

154-9. Passing bell: a funeral bell which tolls at, or near, the 
time of death. 

154-26. Each lonely place, etc.: a slight misquotation of the last 
stanza of Collins's Dirge in Cymbeline. 

156-24. But the grave of those we loved, etc.: Irving is here remi- 
niscent. Ten years before writing this piece, while he was at work 
on his Knickerbocker's History of New York, he had attended the 
funeral of his own betrothed, Matilda Hoffman, who had died of 
consumption. Her death was a profound shock to the impression- 
able young Irving, and he remained unmarried to the end of his 
life, out of devotion to her memory. The hilarious and, at times, 
almost boisterous abandon of humor which so strongly characterized 
the History never returned to his writings, but in its place appeared 



412 NOTES 

the mellowed and softened pathos which marks the present paper, 
as well as many others in this volume. And it was these pathetic 
sketches, especially ''The Broken Heart," which won readiest 
applause from the sentimental age for which Irving wrote. 

THE INN KITCHEN 

160-3. Pomme d'Or: Golden Apple. 

160-5. Table d'hote: literally, "the host's table," a meal of several 
courses, at a specified price, ready between stated hours, at a pub- 
lic dining place. 

160-25. Diligence: the French term for a public stage-coach. 

161-9. Flitch: a side (of a hog), salted and cured. 

162-6. Ecume de mer: literally, "sea foam." The more familiar 
form of the word is its German equivalent meerschaum] a compact, 
soft, white, mineral deposit, used chiefly for carving into tobacco- 
pipes and cigar-holders. 

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 

163-lff- Dight, dressed; trow, think; yestreen, yester-even. 

164-30. Heldenhuch: Book of Heroes — a German collection of 
the romances of mediaeval heroes. 

164-37. Minne-lieders: the songs of the Minnesingers or "love- 
singers," a class of German lyric poets of the twelfth and thirteenth 
centuries, so-called because their chief theme was love. 

165-3. Duenna: an elderly female attendant who, after the 
Spanish fashion, keeps strict guard over the conduct of a young 
woman, 

167-23. Ferne-wein: wine brought from a distance. 

167-24. Great Heidelhurg tun: a monstrous cask in the cellar of 
Heidelburg Castle, capable of holding 49,000 gallons. 

167-26. Saus und Braus: roar and bluster. 

168-16. Starkenfaust: strong fist. 

173-28. Leonora: see the translation by Sir Walter Scott. 

174-20. Cresset: an iron basket filled with combustibles which 
burn like a torch. 

177-16. Trencher: the platter or meal spread before them. 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

For the better understanding of Irving's sketches, the student 
is advised to read the brief description of this famous building in 
an encyclopedia or guide book. 

180-24. Westminster School: See note, 135-15. 



NOTES 413 

181-9. Death's heads: human skulls, symbols of death. 

181-31. Vitalis abbas., etc. The words in parentheses are the 
Latin inscriptions on the tombstones of the three abbots, Vitalis, 
Gilbert, and Lawrence; the dates are the years of their deaths. 

183-1. Poets' Comer: a space in Westminster Abbey, containing 
the busts, tablets, or monuments of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, 
Chaucer, Milton, Spenser, and other British poets, aotors, divines, 
and great men. Some of them are buried near, or under, their 
monuments. A bust of Longfellow stands near the monument of 
the English poet, Robert Browning. 

183-33. Chapels: not separate edifices, but compartments, or 
recesses, in a larger church or abbey. The name "Chapels" was 
latterly applied to the buildings in which the dissenting denomina- 
tions worshiped, especially the Methodists. 

184-14. Morion: a kind of open helmet. 

184-15. The holy war: the Crusades. 

186-21. Stalls: seats in the choir of a cathedral, wholly or partly 
enclosed at back and sides. 

186-22. Knights of the Bath: an ancient order of English knight- 
hood, so-called because the initiates were originally immersed in 
water, as a symbol of purity. 

188-11. For in the silent grave, etc. These lines are from Beau- 
mont and Fletcher's play, Thierry and Theodoret, act iv., sc. i. 

188-16. Suddenly the notes of the organ, etc. The following pass- 
age is justly famous for its attempt to imitate, in words, the deep, 
long-rolling cadences of the pipe-organ; note the swing and music 
of the sentences. 

189-17. "Beds of darkness": compare Job xvii. 13. 

191-4. Sir Thomas Browne, an important prose writer of the 
seventeenth century; his most- read works are Religio Medici (1643) 
and Urn Burial (1658). Irving quotes from Chapter v. of the latter. 

191-15. Cambyses HI., King of Persia, who incorporated Egypt 
into the Persian Empire in 525 b. c. — Mizraim. is the Old Testa- 
ment, Hebrew name for northern, or Lower, Egypt. — Pharaoh is 
the title given to the ruler of Egypt. 

191-24. Gairish: same as "garish," showy, dazzling. 

191-30. As a tale that is told: Psalms xc. 9. 

CHRISTMAS 

The influence of Irving on Dickens may be seen by comparing 
these Christmas sketches with the corresponding, humorously real- 
istic Dingley Bell chapters of the Pickwick Papers. 

193-16. Advent: the season of the year including the four Sun- 



414 NOTES 

days immediately preceding Christmas, instituted as a preparation 
for the Feast of the Nativity (the celebration of Christ's birth). 

195-30. Sherris sack: sherry wine. 

196-8. Wassailings: drinking bouts, carouses. 

196-26. Waits: a band of singers, particularly at Christmas. 

196-29. "When deep sleep falleth upon man": Job iv. 13, and 
xxxiii. 15. Irving misquotes "man" for "men." 

196-37. "Telling the night watches,'' etc.: a rough quotation from 
Milton's Comus, lines 346-47. 

197-3ff. "Some say that ever 'gainst," etc.: Hamlet, i., i., 158; 
'gainst (against), when (adverb of time); strike, to strike down, to 
exert a malign influence. 

THE STAGE COACH 

The old verses are bad Latin, but they seem to mean: "All is 
well: now we may play without penalty; the time is come to lay 
aside our books without delay." 

199-11. Bucephalus: Alexander the Great's favorite horse, which 
no one else could ride; the steed accompanied Alexander through all 
his campaigns and was finally buried with military pomp. 

200-24. Stage: the coach route was divided into sections, or 
stages, the horses being exchanged for fresh ones at the end of each 
stage of the journey. 

200-25. Great coat: the British equivalent of our "over-coat." 

201-26. Cyclops: the cyclops (or cyclopes) were, in the Greek 
myths, the one-eyed giants who forged the thunderbolts in their 
workshop under Mt. Etna. 

202-9. Square it: range themselves with. 

202-11. Get them a heat: keep warm. 

202-12. Leaves half her market: forgets to bring home half the 
things she was sent to market for. 

202-14. The contention of holly and ivy: referring to some obscure 
custom of determining, perhaps by effigies made of holly and of 
ivy respectively, whether husband or wife was the better "man." 

202-16. Wit: intelligence, common sense. 

203-28. Smoke- jack: an automatic contrivance for turning a spit. 

203-30. Deal table: a table made of the wood of a pine or a fir 
tree. 

204-3. Poor Robin: the imaginary author of a series of almanacs, 
the first appearing in 1663. The name is sometimes applied to 
Robert Herrick, the poet (see note 148-2), because he is said to 
have contributed poems to the first numbers of the almanac. 

204-11. Post-chaise: a travelling carriage. 



NOTES 415 

CHRISTMAS EVE 

205-1. Saint Francis (of Assisi) and Saint Benedight (Benedict) 
were two mediisval Italian monks, the first of whom founded the 
order of Franciscans, and the second, the order of Benedictines- 
two of the more important reUgious societies of the Roman Catholic 
Church. 

205-4. Hight good fellow Robin: called good fellow Robin. Robin 
Goodfellow is a playful, mischievous elf in folklore; and passes under 
a variety of other names, such as Puck, and Will-o'-the-wisp. 

205-7. From curfew time to the next prime: from bedtime to the 
next dawn. 

205-19. The old English country gentleman: the sort of English- 
man typified in Sir Roger de Coverley. 

205-25. The Earl of Chesterfield (1694-1773) was renowned in 
his day as a man of fashion; he is now chiefly remembered through 
his book entitled Letters to His Son (1774), a series of epistles on 
manners and morals. 

206-24. Park: the wooded estate surrounding an English gentle- 
man's country residence is regularly known as a park. 

207-31. "Merry disport": merry sport. 

207-38. "Mongrel, puppy," etc.: from Goldsmith's Elegy on the 
Death of a Mad Dog. 

208-4. "—The little dogs and all," etc.: Shakespeare's King Lear, 

iii., vi., 65. 

208-21. The Restoration: the return of the Stuart Kings to the 
throne in 1660, after the rule of the Crom wells. 

209-13. Twelve days of Christmas: the twelve days of festivities 
at Christmas time. Shakespeare's Twelfth Night may have gotten 
its name from the fact that It embodies the spirit of the twelfth 
night after Christmas. 

209-26. Oxonian: a graduate of Oxford University. 

210-8. Round game: a game in which each participant plays for 
himself without a partner. 

210-34. Overwhelming: overhanging. 

211-7. Beaufet: a sideboard, buffet. 

212-20. Tight: neatly dressed, tidy — an archaic word. 

213-27. Jumping with: agreeing with sympathetically. 

213-37. Split reed: a species of pipe used in the construction of 
a pipe-organ; when the tongue at the base of the pipe is split, the 
pipe yields an especially quivering, vibrating sound. 

214-9. Strumming: playing carelessly. 

214-25. Rigadoon: an old, lively dance, for two persons. 

214-26. Had assorted himself with: had chosen as his partner. 



416 NOTES 

216-22. No spirit dares stir abroad: from the quotation on page 
197. 

216-34. Bow-window: same as bay-window. 

CHRISTMAS DAY 

218-6. Meade new-shorne: new-mown meadow. 

218-16. Burden: refrain. 

219-31. Hassocks: cushions upon which to kneel while at prayer. 

220-10. 'Tis thou that crown' st my glittering hearth, etc.: from 
Herrick's A Thanksgiving to God, for His House. — Soiles: makes 
the soil rich. 

221-31. His tail falleth: sheds the feathers in his tail. 

222-23. The Compleat Angler (1653) is the only one of these 
books now read; it is a treatise on the art of fishing, and has secured 
for Walton the name of "the father of Angling." 

224-7. A complete black-letter hunter: i. e., he would read only 
the very old books, which were printed in heavy-faced type, called 
black-letter. William Caxton (the first English printer) and 
Wynkyn de Worde (his successor) both printed books in this type; 
the first book printed in English came from Caxton 's press, about 
1474. Modern English books are printed in "Roman character." 

224-17. Adust: fiery. 

224-30. The Druids were the priests of Druidism, which was the 
religion of the ancient Celts of Gaul, Britain, and Ireland. To the 
Druids, God was symbolized by the oak tree; and the dependence- 
of man upon God was symbolized by the mistletoe, growing upon 
the oak. 

224-33. The Fathers: the early teachers and defenders of Chris- 
tianity. 

225-32. Cremona: a town in Italy, in which were made, from the 
sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, the finest violins the world 
has ever known. 

226-3. At the death: when the fox is killed. 

226-13. Horn spectacles: spectacles with rims made of horn. 

226-33. Sectarian controversies: as early as 1570, there was a 
strong political party coming into prominence, which called for 
the disestablishment of the Episcopal church as the state church 
of England; by 1644, the contention between the Presbyterians 
(Puritans, Roundheads) and the adherents to the established 
church (Cavaliers) was at fever-heat; under the Protectorate the 
Puritan party gained control of church affairs and introduced many 
vigorous measures, aiming at the abolition of some of the stricter 
forms of Episcopal worship; but 1660 saw the return of Charles II. 



NOTES 417 

and the re establishment of the Episcopal Church as the state 
church. 

228-1. Ule is an old form of Yule (Christmas). 

228-37. Pule: apparently a meaningless rhyme-word. 

229-9- Those who at Christmas, etc.: from Poor Robin\s Almanac 
(see note, 204-3); to dine with Duke Humphrey is to go without 
dinner; Squire Ketch is a common name for the hangman. 

229-18. Humming: strong. 

229-33. Broached: tapped, set flowing. 

231-3. When the Romans held possession: Julius Ca?sar invaded 
Britain in 55 and 54 b. c; the island was subjugated by the Romans 
in 43 A. D., and abandoned by them in 410. 

231-26. Tolled: took, toll of, sampled. 

232-10. Smart: showily dressed, decked up, spruce. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

233-3. Yvie: ivy; hap: happen; wee'le: we'll. 

234-20. Belshazzar's parade: see Daniel v. 2. 

234-25. First magnitude: biggest size. 

235-9. The Conquest: in 1066. William the Norman, sumamed 
"the Conqueror," became William I. of England. An old English 
family which can trace its lineage clearly from this date is accounted 
particularly stable. 

235-33. Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino: The boar's 
head bring I, returning praises unto the Lord. Qui estis in convivio: 
you who are at the banquet. 

237-15. Most authentical: most in keeping with the old, estab- 
lished customs. 

237-24. Servire cantico: serve with a song. 

237-29. In Reginensi Atrio: in Queen's Hall. 

238-30. Justice Shallow: a comic character in Shakespeare's 
King Henry IV., Part II. 

238-32. Massinger: an Elizabethan dramatist just after Shake- 
speare. 

239-24. Crabs: crab-apples. 

241-20. Isis: a name sometimes given to the upper course of 
the Thames River, England. 

242-10. He must not stand, etc. : he must not assume a hesitating 
attitude. The words shall I, shall I, have been contracted into 
our word shilly-shally. 

242-14. Out of Joe Miller: out of Joe Miller's Jest Book (1739), a 
well-known storehouse of jokes, puns, and comic stories. 

27 



418 NOTES 

242-36. Worshippe (worship): worthiness, gentility. — Were he 
spirituall or temporall: were he a nobleman of the church, or of the 
state — for example, an archbishop, or an earl. 

244-24. On Midsummer eve, on the eve of the feast of St. John 
the Baptist (June 24th), it was the custom, in old England, to 
kindle fires upon hills in celebration of the Summer Solstice. A 
variety of other customs and ceremonies gradually arose, many 
of them carrying an air of mystery, which fed the sensitive super- 
stition of the ignorant. 

245-27. Van: vanguard. 

245-32. Covenanters: a body of Scotch Presbyterians who, in 
1638-43, entered into a "solemn league and covenant for the restora- 
tion and defense of religion," etc., as against popery and prelacy. 

246-5. Robin Hood: a legendary hunter and outlaw of England, 
of about the twelfth century. Maid Marian (line 12) was the sweet- 
heart of Robin Hood. Forbidden by her father to marry him, she 
dressed as a page, and followed him on all his expeditions. 

246-6. Kendal green: a coarse woolen cloth, originally made in 
Kendal, England. A foraging cap: a small low cap worn by military 
men when not in full-dress uniform. 

246-33. The dark ages: the period of European history beginning 
with the irruption of the barbarian hordes before the fall of the 
Western Roman Empire (476), and lasting for more than five 
centuries. The period was characterized by the decay of civiliza- 
tion. 

246-33. Rigadoons: see note, 214-25. 

246-34. Queen Bess (Elizabeth) reigned over England from 1558 
to 1603. 

247-13. Posting: hastening. 

247-39. Newstead Abbey was, for a time, the residence of Lord 
Byron (1788-1824), the poet; he sold the place in 1818— the year 
when the Sketch-Book began to come out. "The author's account" 
of the abbey is to be found in The Crayon Miscellany (1835); see 
especially the chapter, "Plow Monday." 

248-8. In writing to amuse: although Irving's purpose in his 
early writings was mainly to amuse, he undertook several serious 
works later in life, such as the Life and Voyages of Columbus (1828), 
Oliver Goldsmith (1849), and the Life of Washington (1855-9). 

LONDON ANTIQUES 
249-2. Guido Vaux: Guy Fawkes. 
249-4. William o' the Wisp: see note, 205-4. 
250-17. Knights Templars: a mediaeval order of knighthood, 



NOTES 419 

founded about 1128; so-called because it was organized in what is 
known as the temple of Solomon, at Jerusalem. The aim of the 
order was to protect the pilgrims on their way to the holy shrines. 

252-9. Geomancy: the foretelling of events "by means of some 
aspect of the earth, particularly by the observation of points and 
lines on the earth, or on paper, or by means of the figures formed by 
pebbles or particles of earth thrown down at random." — Standard 
Diet. 

252-31. Arch mago (more commonly, archimago, or archimage): 
chief magician or wizard. The word magi, occurring in the 12th 
line of the following page, is the plural of the Latin magus, from 
which mago is derived, through the Italian. 

253-12. Pensioners: persons pensioned by the government for 
past services; e. g., retired public officers, disabled soldiers, families 
of soldiers killed in service, and meritorious authors. 

253-36. Charter House: a celebrated London asylum for poor 
elderly men, and school for boys. Blackstone, Addison, Steele, 
John Wesley and George Grote (the historian of Greece) were 
among the better known pupils of the school. The school is de- 
lightfully described in The Newcomes, a novel by Thackeray, who 
was also a pupil there. 

254-14. Hospital: the name frequently applied, in England, to 
an alms-house, or retreat for the poor. 

254-33. Apocryphal: unauthenticated, untrustworthy. 



LITTLE BRITAIN 

256-2. Auntients (ancients): members of the legal profession 
(in England), having a certain standing. Bow bell is the bell of 
St. Mary-le-Bow Church, Cheapside, London. Charity is here used 
in the Bible sense of "love." 

256-14. St. PauVs: a famous cathedral in London, designed by 
Sir Christopher Wren; begun in 1675, and completed in 1710; 
renowned for its huge dome, which is 112 feet in diameter. 

256-15. Paternoster Row: a London street near St. Paul's, long 
famous as a centre of book-publishing. 

258-14. John Bullism: see the essay entitled "John Bull," in this 
volume, p. 323; also see note, 323. 

258-20. Michaelmas: the feast of St. Michael, occurring Septem- 
ber 29th. 

258-21. The fifth of November: the day (of the year 1605) on 
which Guy Fawkes meant to blow up the Houses of Parliament with 
gunpiowder, thus hoping 'to avenge the Catholic persecutions of 



420 NOTES 

Protestants under James I. He failed and was arrested; but the 
incident aroused anti-Catholic feeling to a high pitch. 

258-30. St. Dunstan's clock: the clock of the old church of St. 
Dunstan (London); the hours were struck by two huge figures, 
each holding in his hand an immense hammer. The Monument 
was built in 1680, to commemorate the great London fire of 
1666. The lions: effigies that stand at the Lion's Gate, one of 
the four gates of the Tower of London. Guildhall: see note 
124-20ff. 

259-34. Sibyls: in ancient mythology, women who prophesied 
under the supposed inspiration of some deity, and delivered oracles 
in a frenzied manner; here the word simply means, prophesying 
old women of the locality. 

260-4. Cheek by jole: cheek to cheek, close together. 

260-11. The good old king, etc.: George III. died in 1820, and his 
son became George IV. The working classes had been suffering 
much and the general discontent increased when, in 1819, the 
soldiery mortally wounded some of the Manchester artisans, who 
had assembled for the purpose of advocating a reform in Parlia- 
ment. — In 1820 occurred the Cato-Street Conspiracy; a group of 
desperate citizens had plotted to murder the whole Cabinet, and 
were dining in Cato-Street when they were seized and arrested. — • 
Queen Caroline, who had for many years been separated from her 
husband, now George IV., returned to England in 1820. — This 
essay was published in September of the same year, and was part 
of the last (the seventh) installment. 

260-30. Whittington and his Cat: Sir Richard Whittington was 
Lord Mayor of London in 1397, 1406, and 1419. The story of 
Whittington 's going up to London to seek his fortune, and of his 
finally achieving it by means of his cat, is a well-known legend. 
While Whittington, who was leaving London in despair, was rest- 
ing on a stone at Highgate (now a part of London), his attention 
was arrested by a merry peal of bells from the church of St. Mary- 
le-Bow. The bells seemed to repeat the words, "Turn again, 
Whittington, thrice Mayor of London." Accordingly, he retraced 
his steps, and in later years succeeded in fulfilling the prophecy. 

260-34. Cheshires: cheeses made in Cheshire, England. 

261-23. Gimcracks: pretty, but useless, things; gewgaws. 

262-15. Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire: a brand of beer. 

262-17. Bacchus is god of wine, in the classical mythology; 
Momus is the god of mockery. 

262-21. Cavalieros: cavaliers. 

262-31. A catch: a round in music, in which the singers catch 



NOTES 421 

up each other's words; a glee is an unaccompanied part-song for 
three or more voices. 

263-6. Trowl: an obsolete spelling of troll, which is a song sung 
in successive parts, a round or catch. 

263-6. "Gammer Gurton's Needle": one of the first English 
comedies; produced in 1566, two years after the birth of Shakespeare. 

263-22. St. Bartholomew's Fair was held in Smithfield, London, 
first in 1133, and lasted for 14 days. The time was later reduced to 
4 days, and the date changed from August 24th to September 3d. 
The element of amusement more and more overshadowed the 
market idea, until the fair was finally abandoned in 1855. — Lord 
Mayor's Day is the day of festivities and ceremonies celebrating 
the inauguration of the Lord Mayor of London. 

263-31. Him that wears a hood: i. e., a monk. In mediaeval 
literature, monks and friars are often pictured as inordinate drinkers. 

264-7. Tap-room: place where liquor is kept and sold, a bar-room. 

264-18ff. Wolde: willed, were willing; trowle: troll, pass; mault- 
worme: malt-worm, a drunkard, a tippler; scowred, passed around; 
trolde (trolled) is the past tense of the verb trowle (troll) above. 

265-2. Saturnalia: a season of feasting and general mirthmaking. 

265-8. Lilliputian: diminutive. A Lilliputian is one of the 
diminutive people described by Dean Swift, in his Gulliver's Travels 
(1726). 

265-18. Temple Bar: a famous gateway, standing before the 
Temple, London; the king himself was compelled, by custom, to 
ask the Lord Mayor's permission to pass the gate and enter the city. 

265-26. Odd's blood is a corruption of ''God's blood," and is a 
petty Elizabethan oath, used frequently by Shakespeare. 

265-32. The Tower of London has been at various times a royal 
palace, a fortress, a state prison, and an arsenal; see note, 128-30. 

265-33. Beef-eaters: this name is sometimes applied to the guard 
doing police duty at the Tower of London; and, also, the Yeomen 
of the Guard, whose duty it has been, since 1485, to attend the 
king at banquets and other state functions. 

267-25. Articled: apprenticed; bound out to a master, for a term 
of years, for the purpose of learning a trade or profession. 

267-28. Kean: about this time (the spring of 1820), Edmund 
Kean, the celebrated English actor, was playing successfully, at 
Drury Lane Theatre, London, heavy parts from Shakespeare, such 
as Shylock, Hamlet, Othello, lago, and Lear. 

267-28. Edinburgh Review: a literary and political periodical 
founded at Edinburgh in 1802. It was the earliest of the big 
British reviews, and counted many brilliant writers among its con- 



422 NOTES 

tributors, including Scott and William Hazlitt; it introduced 
Carlyle to the reading public, and in its pages Macaulay made his 
literary d^but with his Essay on Milton (1825). 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

272-21. Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? — A remark of 
Falstaff's in King Henry IV., Part I., iii., iii., 93. 

273-8. David Garrick (1717-79), the author of the lines at 
the head of this paper, was one of the most sympathetic and capa- 
ble interpreters of Shakespeare. His acting repertory included 
an unusual number and variety of Shakespearean parts, and his 
genuine enthusiasm for the great poet, together with his skill at 
acting, riveted Shakespeare's hold on public taste. It is not with- 
out fitness that Garrick lies buried at the foot of Shakespeare's 
statue in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. — The jubilee referred 
to is the grand festival which was celebrated at Stratford for three 
days (Sept. 6-8), in 1769, under the direction of David Garrick, 
Dr. Arne, and James Boswell (1740-95), the famous biographer 
of Dr. Samuel Johnson. 

273-19. His father's craft: for the facts of Shakespeare's life con- 
sult Mr. Sidney Lee's Life (N. Y., 1898). The tradition that Shake- 
speare's father was a wool-comber is as misleading as those other 
traditions which make him, in turn, a butcher and a glover. In 
reality, he kept a typical country-store, retailing a variety of com- 
modities, among which were corn, wool, malt, meat, skins, and 
leather. 

273-37. Sir Walter Raleigh: a friend of the poet Spenser and 
a contemporary of Shakespeare: Queen Elizabeth's favorite cour- 
tier; the patron of the first expeditions of discovery sent by Eng- 
land to the New World, and the introducer of American tobacco 
into England — a most interesting personage in many ways. The 
student who would know something of the times in which Raleigh 
lived, should read Charles Kingsley's charming romance. West- 
ward Ho! 

274-23. Santa Casa: a famous pilgrimage shrine in Loretto, 
Italy; it is reputed to be the veritable house of the Virgin Mary, 
transported thither by angels from Nazareth in 1294. 

278-3. Fifty-three years: Shakespeare's real age, at his death, 
was fifty-two (1564-1616). 

279-16. Pasquinade: a lampoon; a malicious, libelous, personal 
satire. The story of Shakespeare's inditing a "bitter ballad" 
against Sir Thomas Lucy seems to rest largely on the authority of 
Nicholas Rowe, the first critical editor of Shakespeare, and a some- 



NOTES 423 

what over- zealous collector of unauthenticated traditions about 
the poet. 

279-31. Volke: iolk. There is no evidence, internal nor external, 
to show that these worthless lines were written by Shakespeare. 

280-8. Quartering s: the four divisions of a shield or coat-of-arms. 

281-12. Picturesque Views on the Avon: Mr. Sidney Lee gives the 
title of Ireland's book as Views on the Warwickshire Avon (1795). 

281-22. Sack: an old name for various dry Spanish wines. 

282-23. 'Gins: begins; chaliced flowers: flowers shaped like chalices, 
or cups; marybuds: marigolds; bin, is. 

283-2. Errant knights (knights errant) : knights who travelled in 
search of adventures, to exhibit their prowess, etc. 

285-4. Under the green wood tree, etc.: from As You Like It, ii., 
v., 1. 

285-13. Quoins: this word has various meanings in architecture, 
but probably refers here to the wedge-shaped stones forming an 
arch over a window or a door. 

285-21. Barbacan (usually spelled barbican) : an outer fortifica- 
tion to a castle or fortress. 

286-1. The quotation is from Henri/ IV., Part II., v., iii., 8. — 
Marry is a corruption of "by Mary" (the Virgin); it is a petty oath 
and ejaculation, like "odd's blood" mentioned some pages back. 

286-9. Moss-troopers: irregular, marauding soldiery, who trooped 
over the bogs (mosses). 

287-13. The Star-Chamber was a high English court for the trial 
of offenses by and against the crown. The Latin words in italics 
are legal terms which Slender and Shallow delightfully confound. 
Vizaments: advisements, acts of deliberation. 

288-39. Yt: that. 

289-32. Burden: staff, symbol. A jess is a short strap (usually 
of leather) fastened to the leg of a hawk, to which are attached the 
bells, or the leash. Hounds that run buck, etc., are hounds that run 
these animals down, in the chase, or hunt. 

290-22. By cock and pye: a petty oath common in Shakespeare's 
time; see Irving 's own note on pages 237-8. Kickshaws: unsub- 
stantial or unrecognizable dishes of food. — Both this quotation 
and the next are from Henry IV., Part II. 

290-36. Shrove-tide: shriving time; the period just before lent. 

291-35. Although Shakespeare is not buried in Westminster 
Abbey, there is a bust of him there, in Poets' Corner. 

292-11. He turns as fondly, etc. : Shakespeare spent the closing 
years of his life (i. e., from 1611 to 1616) in quiet retirement at 
Stratford. 



424 NOTES 

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 

293. This essay, and the one immediately following, were not 
included in the original American issue in seven parts. Irving 
wrote the Sketch- Book for the American public, not intending to 
publish it in England; but, when he found that parts of it were 
being brought out in pirated editions in England, and were finding 
some favor, he issued the book there himself, adding these two 
papers on American subjects, which he knew would attract the 
British interest in Indian life. 

293-24. Interested writers: writers who had a private end to serve." 

303-14. Indian wars: consult John Fiske's The Beginnings of 
Neiv England. 

303-22. When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome: about 390 
B. c. 

304-6. The geographical location of the early Indian tribes of 
North America may be learned from R. G. Thwaite's The Colonies, 
in ''Epochs of American History" (N. Y., 1890), ch.: §3. 

304-16. The places that now know them, etc. : a rough quotation 
of J oh vii. 10. — "neither shall his place know him any more." 
Cf. also Psalms ciii. 16. 

304-32. The student who is interested in Indian stories will find 
an accurate account of life among the Indians of the far West, 
in F. Parkman's Oregon Trail; a somewhat idealized picture of 
Indian habits and customs is presented in J. F. Cooper's "Leather- 
Stocking Tales;" a thoroughly romantic Indian epic-poem is Long- 
fellow's Hiawatha. 

PHILIP OF POKANOKET 

310-20. Renegardo: renegade, one who deserts his party. 

312-3. Spectrology: the science that treats of spectres; demon- 
ology. 

312-38. The Rev. Increase Mather: a most vigorous and sturdy 
Colonial Puritan, president of Harvard College from 1685 to 1701, 
and author of over 135 separate publications. 

319-38. Experimental feeling: feeling by experience. 

JOHN BULL 
323. John Bull, the type of a true-born Englishman, is pictured 
in the comic papers as a portly, robust, stubborn, red-faced gentle- 
man, dressed in the manner of the middle-class Englishman of the 
year 1800. The political events of the eighteenth century, especially 
the war with the American Colonies, and the dogged resistance of 



NOTES 425 

a later time to Napoleon's encroachments, resulted in producinc;, 
by way of reaction, that insular conservatism still typified by the 
figure of John Bull. It is one of the distinctions of Irving that he 
fixed upon New York City the figure of Father Knickerbocker, 
thus making New York unique among cities as being the only one 
honored with such a typical figure. — Notice that Irving likes the 
English but does not flatter them. 

324-6. Beau ideal: a French phrase, meaning a faultless ideal or 
model. 

324-13. Bow-bells: the bells of the Church of Mary-le-Bow, within 
the sound of which every true Cockney (native Londoner) is said 
to be born. See note, 356-2. 

326-25. Playing the niagnifico: acting as though he were a person 
of importance. 

326-29. Gentlemen of the fancy: "sports" (in the colloquial sense), 
especially prize-fighters. 

332-2. To send packing: to send away peremptorily, with bag 
and baggage. 

333-4. Come to the hammer: sold at auction. 

333-37. Blade: a man of the world, who cuts a dash. 

334-7, Redundancies: reflections. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

337-2. Earth to Earth, etc.: these words are part of the Burial 
Service of the Episcopal and other churches. 

337-9. Rachel, mourning over her children: St. Matthew ii. 18. 

337-33. This is the prettiest low-born lass, etc.: from Shakes- 
peare's Winter's Tale, iv., iv., 146. 

THE ANGLER 

345-18. Complete Angler: this quaint fisherman's classic, usually 
spelled The Compleat Angler, was published in 1653; the author, 
Izaac Walton, was a contemporary of the lyric poet, Robert Her- 
rick, whom Irving so often quotes in this book. Both Walton and 
Herrick were born just as Shakespeare was writing his first plays. 

345-25. Don Quixote (Don Kee-o'-tee), is the hero of the world- 
famous Spanish romance of the same name, by Cervantes de La 
Mancha, published in the years 1605 and 1615. The Don, who 
has read books on mediaeval chivalry until his head is turned, goes 
out to seek adventure, clad in armor and mounted on a bony nag, 
after the manner of the knights-errant of the Middle Ages. The 
spirit of the story is burlesque, and the Don is pictured as charging 



426 NOTES 

on wind-mills and herds of goats, under the illusion that the former 
are giants, and the latter an armed host of miscreants, bent on 
evil; his vow of knighthood makes it his solemn duty to defend the 
innocent from all evil-doers. 

348-26. Tretyse: treatise. 

348-29. Disportes: sports. 

348-31. This forsayd crafti disport: this before-mentioned crafty 
sport. 

348-38. Let: hinder, obstruct, be in the way; customable: cus- 
tomary, accustomed; doying: doing; eschew: shun; ydleness: idle- 
ness; right: very. 

349-17. Piscator {the Latin for "fisherman") is one of the char- 
acters in Walton's Compleat Angler. 

349-21. Inferior: lower, low-lying. 

350-7. Battle of Camperdown: the battle between the Dutch and 
the English fleets, fought off the coast of Holland, 1797. 

351-18. Peasant: possibly this is a misprint for "pheasant." 

352-25. Admiral Hosier's Ghost: this ballad may be found in 
Percy's Reliques, ii., 376. 

353-12. Describing here means "going through," "performing." 
We use the word in the same sense in mathematics, when we speak 
of "describing a circle," 

353-34. Sinbad: Sinbad the Sailor, the hero of some of the mar- 
vellous adventures told in the Thousand and One Nights or Arabian 
Nights. 

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOAV 

355-1. A pleasing land, etc. : these lines are by James Thompson 
(1700-48). 

355-9. St. Nicholas was elected patron saint of the New Nether- 
lands by the early Dutch settlers (according to Irving, in his Knicker- 
bocker's History of New York). 

356-10. It was not far from this very valley that Irving settled 
down in 1835, and passed, quietly, with a few interruptions, the 
last years of his life. 

356-22. Hendrick Hudson: an English navigator in the employ 
of the Dutch; in 1609 he sailed up the river which now bears his 
name. 

356-33. Nightmare, with her whole nine fold: the nightmare's 
nine fold are her nine imps or familiars (attendant spirits); the 
phrase is from King Lear, iii., iv., 126. 

357-1. Hessian trooper: one of the mercenary soldiers hired by 
the British to fight the Colonists during the American Revolution. 



NOTES 427 

359-12. Spare the rod, etc.: Proverbs xiii. 24. 
360-21. The lion bold: in The New England PHmer (2d edition, 
about 1691), appeared the couplet: 

The Lion bold 

The Lamb doth hold. 

360-31. Carried the palm: came off victor. 

361-30. Rev. Cotton Mather (1663-1728) was the son of Rev- 
Increase Mather (quoted on page 312); author of over 400 separate 
works, chief of which is the Magnolia, published in 1702. Popularly 
he is now remembered chiefly for his zealous activity in persecuting 
the so-called witches of Salem. 

362-20. .1 loitch's token was some visible sign by which a person 
knew he was under the power of a witch (according to the old 
superstition). 

362-25. In linked sweetness, etc.: from Milton's L' Allegro, line 

140. 

363-33. Despite: spite. 

364-11. Saardam (correctly spelled Zaandam) is a town in 
Holland. 

366-36. Gaud: gay decoration. 

367-18. Castle keep: castle stronghold, or retreat of safety. 

368-4. Don Cossacks: see note, 6-26. 

368-31. Rantipole: wild, boisterous. 

368-33. Toyings: fondling attentions. 

369-10. Supple-jack: a species of shrub. 

370-20. Preceptor: teacher, intellectual and moral leader. 

371-28. Tow-cloth: a coarse hemp cloth. 

371-30. Mercury: a Roman god, who had wings at his heels and 
wings on his cap, that he might travel swiftly through space. 

371-35. Gorget: breast-plate. 

373-37. Monteiro (more commonly spelled montero) is the obso- 
lete name for a hunter's cap which has a round crown with flaps. 

374-19. Treacle: the English name for molasses. 

375-7. Dames: wives. 

375-28. Fain: gladly. 

375-37. Oly koek: oil cake; a sort of cake, probably hke the 
doughnut. 

376-9. Heaven bless the mark: an old archery phrase, now loosely 
used as a general expression of praise,— often ironical. 

377-28. During the tear: the Revolutionary War, of course. 
For a good idea of "the British and American Hne," read J. F. 
Cooper's Spy. 



428 NOTES 

378-2. Mynheer: the Dutch equivalent of Mr. or Sir; used alone, 
as a noun, it means gentleman. 

378-3. Whiteplains: White Plains is a town 22 miles north-east 
of New York City; it was at this town that the British under Howe 
won a victory over the Americans under Washington, Oct. 28, 1776. 

378-4. Parried a musket ball, etc. The mynheer caught the 
musket ball on the end of his sword and juggled it for a moment, 
thus preventing any injury to his person. 

378-35. Funeral trains: funeral processions. 

378-36. The great tree, etc.: a tree in Tarrytown near which 
Major Andre, a British officer in the Revolutionary War, was cap- 
tured, on the 23d of Sept., 1780, and condemned as a spy. 

379-33. Brake: thicket of brushwood or bramble. 

381-10. The very witching time of night: Hamlet, iii., ii., 363. 

385-15. Ado: difficulty. 

387-28. Admitted to the bar: admitted to the right to practice law. 

387-29, Electioneered: to electioneer is to attract interest to a 
political candidate for the purpose of securing votes for him. 

387-30. Ten Pound Court: a court for the trying of cases not in- 
volving over ten pounds (English money). 

389-3. Ancient city of Manhattoes: New York City was originally 
inhabited by an Indian tribe, the Manhattoes, from whom the 
Dutch purchased the site for $24. 

395-5. Ergo: therefore, the word regularly introducing the con- 
clusion of a syllogism; a syllogism is a set form of logical proof, 
which endeavors to establish the truth of a conclusion by pointing 
out the necessary relationship of this conclusion to a generally 
accepted statement of fact (called the major premise). Irving 's 
syllogism is intentionally fallacious, for the purpose of humorous 
effect. 

395-22. A curry is a dish of fowl, fish, rice, or whatnot, served 
with curry sauce; a devil is a similar dish, highly seasoned. 



Longmans' English Classics 

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Professor of Rhetoric and English Composition in Columbia University 



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